Lady Mary Crawley's Diary
by IlPostino
Summary: Lady Mary Crawley's Diary, starting from series one. Some fluff, humour and a little hurt/comfort thrown in for good measure. Winner of a Highclere Award! Chapter 22: It's not all bad, being a fallen woman. This chapter is Rated M. M/M
1. Chapter 1

**12****th**** April 1912****.**

The engagement is off. Or at least, I'm assuming it's off. Patrick has died. I don't think even Granny can expect me to marry a dead man, (sorry Granny).

* * *

**20****th**** April 1912**.

Alright, I do feel rather bad.

I've written some horrible things about Patrick in the past. I've not been quite fair to him, I know.

I hate the way that everyone is looking at me, like they expect me to burst into tears at any moment. The funny thing is, I've been betrothed to him since I was six years old, but I feel like I didn't know him at all. I don't think we've even spoken in two years. Some fiancé I've been. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to react, but the reality is I feel nothing. I know I should feel something, but I can't. Sometimes I wonder if I really am as heartless as everyone thinks I am.

In contrast to this, Edith is inconsolable. Can you believe that? She's grieving over **my** fiancé. My glib attitude is not going over at all well. Even Sybil is starting to get cross with me. When Sybil gets cross, that's how I know I've crossed a line. Sybil almost never gets cross.

Oh, I forgot to mention – Papa's new valet started a couple of days ago. I've been trying to wring all the details out of Anna. The man has quite a severe limp, I believe. Still, Anna blushes a little when she talks about him, so I've reason to hope that maybe he's quite attractive? I hope so. God knows, we could use some cheering up around here.

I'll keep you posted about the valet – I have to go now. Granny is here and she's asking for me. No doubt she wants to talk about the entail again. Patrick's death has, rather selfishly, left Papa without an heir. I know Granny hopes we can smash the entail and then, guess who gets to inherit? (Me.)

He died on the Titanic. Honestly, that's so typical of Patrick. Only he could die on an unsinkable ship.

* * *

**21st April 1912**

I finally saw the new valet. He's nothing to get excited about.

I rather question Anna's taste in men.

* * *

**23rd April 1912. **

Oh god, I hate wearing black.

Sybil rather likes it, I think. But then, Sybil would look beautiful in a potato sack. I prefer reds and greens – I think they bring out my eyes better. When I wear black, my eyes look too dark. Like there's no colour in them at all. I hate it.

When we were getting dressed for dinner, Sybil tried to console me. "It's not for long." she said, "Mama says we can go into half-mourning next month. And back to colours for September."

"It still seems a lot for a cousin." I said.

"But not a _fianc__é__._" Edith chipped in, helpful as ever.

Sometimes I could quite happily strangle my sister.

In other news, Papa and Granny have been fighting about the entail, (or 'The Great Matter', as I have taken to calling it). There seems to be a deficit of male heirs in the Grantham Family Tree, but Papa seems unwilling to fight the entail anyway. I can't deny that I'm beginning to get quite insulted about the whole thing. This is 1912, for god's sake. I could rule Downton as well as any man. Better, actually. If it's left to Papa, the estate is going to be entailed away to some coal miner in Lancaster. Granny is furious with him. But then, I do love it when Granny gets riled up.

Something else Sybil said to me last night: "I know you're sad about Patrick. Whatever you say, I know it."

I told her she was right, but that I wasn't quite as sad as I should have been. She didn't have anything to say to that.

The thing with Sybil is, she's too nice. I wish I could be more like her sometimes.

* * *

**30th April 1912.**

The Duke of Crowborough has come to stay! Papa picked him up from the station this morning. Of course the entire house lined up to greet him, including the new Valet, who collapsed face-first onto the pathway and swallowed a mouth full of gravel. Carson was not at all impressed but quite simply, the whole escapade made my day. I had to excuse myself, I was laughing so hard.

"You're so childish." Edith whispered as I left the room.

Childish, yes. But at least I have a sense of humour.

* * *

**2nd May 1912.**

The Duke left in rather a hurry. It's a bit of a shock, I thought we were getting on rather well. I feel like such a fool. Still, you know what they say – when one door closes, another one will open.

Papa has still not found an heir for Downton, but as of yet he is _still_ not willing to fight the entail. Things are starting to get desperate. It seems he wants anyone but his own daughter to inherit the estate. I half expect him to name Isis as his heir. Oh good god, I could actually see him doing that. He's going to leave everything to the dog. I just know it.

I'm sorry, I've not been updating you as well as I should. I'll try to write more often. God knows there's nothing else to do around here. Downton is as dull as it is beautiful.

Nevermind. The Duke of Crowborough was a welcome diversion, even if he didn't stay very long. I wonder if Papa said something to him?

* * *

**3rd May 1912.**

You won't believe this. Papa has found a male heir – a fourth cousin or something. He's_ middle-class._ No, worse than that, he's a _solicitor._

I feel sick.

* * *

**14th May 1912.**

I'm sorry. I'm not a very faithful correspondent, am I?

There's not much news, I'm afraid. I suspect Anna has a crush on the new Valet so I'm channelling all my energies into spying on them. There's nothing new to report. I'm rather disappointed in Anna. She's not a very exciting subject to spy on.

In other news, I think Edith has been going through my things again. So Edith, if you're reading this, you're wasting your time. There's nothing I've written in here that I wouldn't already say to your face anyway. You need a new hobby. Maybe you should take up knitting? That's what spinsters do, isn't it? Knit?

In terms of 'The Great Matter': Papa took a trip to London last week to go and meet his new 'heir'. Why he feels he has to go to London when his heir is a solicitor from Manchester, I'm not quite clear on. I still haven't forgiven him. How could he throw over his own daughter in favour of a man he hardly knows? Still, Papa is back now, and he seems very pleased with his choice.

"Such a pleasant fellow!" He said, "So polite and well-mannered! Not a single bad habit either." He looked over at me, "He's quite handsome Mary. I know you'll like him."

"Since he's supposed to be my replacement, I hardly think that's likely." I said. Papa just smiled and stroked my hair. I hate it when he does that.

"Did he bring the photograph you asked him?" Mama asked.

"He did." Papa reached inside his pocket and produced a photograph of the man who is, effectively, ruining my life. He showed it to me first.

"See, Mary? I'm not an expert, but he's quite good-looking, yes?"

Something about the desperate way Mama and Papa were looking at me made my blood run cold. So help me god, if they try to make me marry this man.

I spared a quick glance at the picture. It was of a fair-looking man. Nothing extraordinary. He was frowning in the picture and if he doesn't have a sense of humour I very much doubt we can even be friends, let alone husband and wife.

"No." I said simply and left it at that. Edith can have him. Anyway, I've not quite given up on Granny yet. She, at least, still wants to fight the entail.

You know the funny thing is, sometimes I forget that Patrick is dead. Isn't that strange?

* * *

**16th May 1912.**

Quick update on the Anna situation – (yes, I'm still spying on her).

I caught her humming today. Anna NEVER hums.

I will get to the bottom of this.

* * *

**17th May 1912.**

Tried to get some information out of Anna today. The Valet's name is Bates, but that's all I've been able to establish. I can't even get a first name out of her.

If she doesn't give up some decent information soon, I'm going to shake her. WHY WERE YOU HUMMING, ANNA?

Good god, I'm bored.

* * *

**2nd June 1912.**

Guess who I've just had a run-in with? Matthew Crawley, the heir apparent.

Papa has moved Mr Crawley and his widowed mother into Crawley House, in the village. He loves Matthew so much, he wants him to live as close to Downton as possible. (As opposed to Patrick, who could bloody well go and live in America for all Papa cared. I'm not Patrick's greatest champion by any stretch of the imagination but I still thought this was rather harsh).

Anyway, I had planned to go riding with Lynch this morning but Mama cornered me and asked if I'd stop by the Crawley's new house and invite them to dinner. I had no objection. Don't misunderstand me, I know full well that this is the first in a long line of match-making tactics Mama is going to make in order to throw me and Mr. Crawley together, but for once I had no objection. I was curious to see what he was like. And besides, there's nothing else to do. Anna is so boring. I've taken to harassing Sybil, but even she is starting to get annoyed with me.

So, I saddled up Diamond and rode down to the village.

I actually caught Matthew Crawley as he pulled up in front of the house. Molesley was there waiting for them, of course. I saw Mr Crawley and his mother step out of the car and I immediately recognised him from the photograph Papa showed me. But, do you want to know something funny? I actually thought to myself, 'oh, he _is_ quite handsome'. He has very blue eyes, I don't think the photograph quite did them justice. And for one small moment, as I was riding up to the house, I thought I was actually quite willing to set aside 'The Great Matter' and the entail, and everything that went with it. Hell, I thought I might even try to be _neighbourly._ It's amazing what a handsome face can do to a girl's attitude. Didn't I say that Downton needed a handsome face to brighten it up?

Mr Crawley and his mother disappeared into the house and I wasn't far behind them. It took a moment or two to dismount, and then another minute or so to locate Molesley so he could introduce me properly. I had steadied myself, and I was ready to make a fair and (reasonably) unbiased assessment.

Molesley showed me through the front door and escorted me straight to the parlour where the great Mr Crawley appeared to be having an argument with his mother. I didn't catch exactly what it was that he was saying, only the tail-end of it.

"... obviously going to push one of the daughters at me." he was saying, "They would've fixed on that when they heard I was a batchelor."

My blood ran cold. I don't think I've ever been quite so angry in all my life. Can you imagine? I rode up there, on my best behaviour, to welcome him into the village and I catch him in the midst of saying something so rude? Not to mention ungrateful. It was a good thing I left my whip with Lynch, because I wouldn't have trusted myself not to strike him across his pretty little face. For heaven's sake, my father is leaving you his _entire estate,_ you wretch. God knows, you've done nothing to deserve it.

'Push one of the daughters' at him? Ha.

I could tell the exact second he realised I was standing there. I managed to keep a rather civilised conversation with his mother going, but I wouldn't stay for tea and by the time I excused myself, he was still gawping at me like a goldfish.

So, Matthew Crawley is coming to dinner tonight. I hope he chokes on it.

* * *

**3rd June 1912.**

Dinner with the Heir Apparent last night. I refuse to talk about it. Needless to say, he didn't choke.

* * *

**9th June 1912.**

I went riding again today. I left Lynch behind at the stables, holding my hat. I needed to clear my head and he rides too slow for me.

It started to rain quite heavily and by the time I reached the village I was soaked through. I don't mind the rain though. I rather like it, actually. It helps me think.

As I rode past Crawley House, I saw Cousin Matthew on a bicycle, heading towards the train station. Of course, it makes perfect sense that the solicitor would ride a bicycle. I watched as he cycled down the street. I watched as the bus to Ripon overtook him. I watched as the bus drove through a rather large puddle and drenched him from head to toe.

I watched as he fell off his bike, and I did nothing. Dear diary, I cannot tell you how happy that made me.

* * *

**11th June 1912.**

The plot thickens!

Mama warned me this morning that Cousin Matthew was coming to see Papa, so naturally I did what any sane person would do – I went into the garden and hid behind the rose bushes.

I know how that sounds. You probably think I'm rather mad, but I'm not. The Heir Apparent has not even been here for one week, but it seems like I keep running into him wherever I go. If I go to the village, he's there. If I stay at the house, he comes to see Papa. I have seen Matthew Crawley nearly every day this week and I do mean that quite literally. I'm sick of the sight of him. And to think, I actually thought he might 'brighten the place up'.

So, there I was, hiding behind the rose bushes. I'd bought a book with me to keep me company, as I anticipated I would have to stay there for sometime. So, sitting in the grass, I managed to make myself comfortable and what did I hear...?

Anna's voice. Anna with _a gentleman_.

I couldn't resist a quick peek. They were walking down the pathway towards the servant's entrance and luckily, they couldn't see me. I rose to a crouch and tried to follow them as best as I could, keeping myself hidden behind the bushes at all times. The gentleman, I recognised, was Mr Bates. Their conversation went something like this.

Anna: "The roses are nice enough. A bit fussy for me, though."

Mr Bates: "Why, what would you prefer?"

Anna: "Hydrangeas."

Mr Bates: (Nearly dies laughing)

Anna: "I beg your pardon? What's so funny?"

Mr Bates: "Nothing. I think it's sweet, actually. Hydrangeas, indeed!"

Anna: "What's wrong with hydrangeas?"

Very well, it's not exactly a passionate love affair, but it was rather sweet to witness and I'm sure the conversation would have been more daring if I managed to hear the rest of it. As it happened I crashed into something and fell over. My immediate concern was that Anna and Bates might have heard me and realised I was spying on them, but as I looked up, I realised that was the least of my problems. Guess who I crashed in to?

Go on, guess. Bear in mind how appalling my luck has been lately.

That's right. It was Matthew Crawley.

"What on earth are you doing?" He said.

"None of your business." I told him.

He did his goldfish trick again, his mouth opening and closing uselessly like I'm supposed to mystically guess what it is he's trying to say. Meanwhile, there was I, sitting flat on the grass. A real gentleman would have offered me a hand.

"The thing is," he said, "I was hoping to catch you. I think we started off on the wrong foot. I know dinner was rather a wash the other night, but I was hoping you and I could start again. I'm not quite the sea-monster you think I am. And the fact is we're going to be in each other's lives for a very long time and I was thinking that ma-... I say, what _are_ you doing?"

What I was doing was trying to peer through the bushes. It was no good. Anna and Bates were gone.

"If you must know," I said, "I'm on a very important mission and you're ruining it."

His mouth twitched. "Oh?"

"Yes. Now go away, I'm very busy."

He crouched beside me, "Can't I join you? I'm good at missions."

"No." I said.

He did the goldfish thing a couple more times and then said, "Please?"

"Look," I explained, "it's no use pretending we're going to be friends, because we're not. I'm sorry to be blunt, but that's the way it is. You're the man that stole my inheritance."

I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the bushes. From behind me, I could hear him say, "We could just... give it time? Get to know each other?"

"I don't think so." I said to the bushes.

There was a moment of silence, and by the time I looked over at Cousin Matthew, he had gone.

And Edith, if you're still reading this, you're putting on weight.

* * *

**14th June 1912.**

Well, this is a surprise. I've received a letter from an old family friend, Evelyn Napier, son and heir to Viscount Branksome. I do rather like Mr Napier. I've known him for a few years and he's always been a good friend to me, (although truth be told he's not very exciting). He likes to talk about hunting a lot. And I do mean _a lot._

The last time I saw him was last season, at Constance Waverley's ball. We danced a little and he seemed to be quite interested in me. Following Mama's advice, I had to intimate to him in the subtlest way possible that I was actually engaged to Patrick and wouldn't be free to dally with other gentlemen in the foreseeable future. At least, _I thought _I was being subtle. He looked rather hurt at the time and I was beginning to suspect he might never talk to me again. But lo and behold! A letter! He has heard about Patrick passing and he wanted to offer his condolences and inform me he was going to be visiting our part of the country. So, there we are. If I play this right, I could very well be a Viscountess one day. Granny would be ecstatic!

I've taken great pains to hide my diary because I know if Edith gets wind of my little scheme, she'll find some way to ruin it. She's such a sneak. When I was eight, I made friends with a boy in the village and she was the first one to rat me out whenever I tried to go out and play with him. Not that I want to play with Mr Napier, you understand.

Anna is avoiding me. She dresses me in silence and then flees the room. I suspect she knows I've been spying on her. Whether this is because Edith has ratted me out or my own lack of subtley, I don't know.

* * *

**19th June 1912.**

Matthew Crawley seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. I haven't seen him since our little 'run-in' in the garden last week. I think he's finally taken the hint, and is leaving me alone.

* * *

**20th June 1912.**

Urgh! No such luck. Papa invited him to dinner last night. He was so sullen and moody. I feel like slapping him. Why is HE upset?

* * *

**22nd June 1912.**

Another letter from Mr Napier! This one's actually quite romantic – or at least, romantic for Evelyn. He says he 'missed the sound of my voice' and hoped that I would be able to see him when he was in the area. I might mention this to Mama. She'd be the perfect ally in this. If she finds out I'm willing to marry someone – ANYONE – she'll do backflips round the courtyard.

I could be a Viscountess one day. Imagine that!

* * *

**23rd June 1912**

The strangest thing just happened.

This morning I went to the village to post my response to Mr Napier. It was as good an excuse as any to leave the house. The weather has finally improved and it feels like I haven't seen the sun in months. So, as I was strolling through the village and enjoying the feel of sunlight on my face and guess who rounded the corner and nearly knocked me off my feet?

"Oh god," said Matthew Crawley, doffing his hat, "I'm so sorry! I always seem to be knocking you over, aren't I?"

I hadn't been thinking about Matthew Crawley that day. I was thinking about Mr Napier's Viscountcy and a town house the size of the British Museum. And it was so sunny outside and I was in such a good mood that for a minute there I almost forgot how very much I hated Matthew. Today, I was apt to dwell on how everything was _finally_ going my way.

"That's alright, Cousin Matthew." I said, "It doesn't matter."

"It... doesn't?"

"No, not a bit." I walked past him and continued on my mission towards the post office. I was lost in my own thoughts as I rounded the corner and started walking down the hill, and I wasn't even aware that Cousin Matthew was trying to catch me up until I was halfway down.

"You mean..." he said breathlessly, "...you don't hate me?"

"Of c-..." I was going to say 'Of course I hate you', (because obviously I do), but it seemed like a mean-spirited thing to say, even by my standards. I looked at Cousin Matthew and for the first time I realised how tired he looked. So yes, I admit it, I capitulated.

"I don't hate you." I said, "I hate that my home is getting taken away from me." His eyes were bleary and bloodshot, and it occurred to me that this man was two hundred miles from the place that he called home. He managed a weak smile.

"Well, that's an improvement I suppose. But you must know I would never take your home away from you, you have to believe me."

"And how would I know that? I hardly know you." I said.

Matthew Crawley stopped walking and jumped in front of me, blocking my path. He extended his hand and I looked at it, uncertain what he wanted me to do. After a moment, I extended my hand too and he shook it vigorously.

"Nice to meet you. My name is Matthew Crawley. My favourite colour is red, my favourite poet is Keats, I can't stand the taste of aniseed and I would never, ever try to take your home away from you. Those are the most important things you need to know about me."

"That, and the fact that you're completely mad." I said.

Matthew Crawley laughed. "Yes." he said, "I suppose I am."

I stepped around him and walked a few steps to the Post Office door.

"Green." I said.

"Green?"

"My favourite colour is green. Red is also nice, but green brings out my eyes better."

"So, does that mean we're friends then?" he said, dubiously.

"I doubt it."

"But it means we're not necessarily enemies?"

I thought about it for a moment.

"Hm. Not _necessarily _enemies, no."

Cousin Matthew's face lit up. I rather think the whole thing had been playing on his mind.

"Good." he said, "then that's definitely an improvement."

See what I mean? The man is completely mad.

* * *

**25th June 1912**

I wish I had not got Mama involved in my scheme for Evelyn Napier. She was practically salivating when she suspected I might be willing to marry someone. Now I fear she's lost the plot completely.

My first cause for alarm was when she actually made the effort to join us at the breakfast table yesterday morning. Normally, she takes breakfast in bed. The fact that she was up and dressed before I was sent a cold chill down my spine.

"You did write to Mr Napier yesterday, didn't you Mary?" she said, buttering her toast, "And you invited him to come and hunt with us whilst he was visiting the area?"

I told her I did. Papa didn't even look up from behind his newspaper.

"I sent him a note too." Mama said, "I really must insist he stays here. Errol has been a good friend to this family and I'd hate to see him stay in some dirty country pub. We could look after him so much better."

"His name's Evelyn, Mama." Sybil pointed out, "And we don't want to force him to stay here if he doesn't want to." Sybil looked at me, "It would be horrible if he felt obligated to stay here because we wouldn't leave him alone."

"No it wouldn't. He absolutely should feel obligated. We're his friends." I said.

Sybil shook her head.

"Yes, but we wouldn't be very good friends if we bullied him into staying here. You're not going to bully him, are you Mama?"

Mama was suspiciously quiet.

"Mama?" said Sybil, desperately.

"Sybil," I said, "he obviously wants to stay here. Otherwise he wouldn't have written to me in the first place and told me he was visiting the area."

"Besides which," Edith chipped in, "it's not Mama you have to worry about. It's Mary. Writing to a gentleman is a bit _fast_, don't you think?"

"Oh, please." I said, "This is _1912,_ Edith."

"That's not an excuse."

"Girls." Mama said, "Don't start, please. Edith, leave your sister be. She's allowed to write to her friends if she wants to. And no Sybil, I wouldn't say I was planning to bully him, _per say_. I'll leave that to your charming grandmother."

Oh god. Leave it to Granny and I'll be married in under a week. What a terrifying prospect.

Papa stuck his head up from behind the newspaper just long enough to poke his eggs with a fork and feign interest in our female conversation.

"What are we talking about?" he said.

"Viscount Branksome's son." Mama said, "We're trying to persuade him to come here. He's a very good friend of Mary's." This last bit of the sentence was said with such intonation of voice, that I half expected her to finish it with a dramatic wink. Subtle, mother. Very subtle.

"Oh? But what about Matthew?" Papa said, "I thought..."

Mama laughed very loudly, trying to cover whatever it was that Papa was saying. As if I didn't know they were trying to set us up. Mama, you seat us next to each other at _every single meal._ Did you really think I wasn't going to notice that you were trying to match me with Cousin Matthew?

"I'm not sure how interested Matthew is in Mary anyway." Edith said, "Besides which, they have very different interests. I think Cousin Isobelle said Matthew was interested in seeing some of the local churches? I thought I might take him. It certainly wouldn't appeal to _Mary._"

No, it certainly wouldn't. Mama looked surprised but not terribly convinced.

"That's... very kind of you, Edith. I'm sure Matthew would love that."

I had to resist the urge to throw my plate in Edith's face.

"Since when were you interested in churches?" I said.

"I have always had an appreciation for architecture."

"Appreciation,_ my foot." _

"Girls, please. This is why I normally take my breakfast in bed."

And so on, and so forth until Edith eventually stormed out in a huff.

So, how about that, dear diary? Edith and Cousin Matthew, going to view churches together. I suppose I can expect a happy announcement by the end of the month. Excuse me while I vomit.

Edith and Cousin Matthew. A match made in hell.

* * *

**30****th**** June 1912.**

I'm on Anna and Bates patrol! I caught them whispering in the hallway this morning.

First Edith and Matthew, now Anna and Bates! Love is in the air, dear diary.

* * *

**2nd July 1912**

It's settled. Mr Napier is coming to visit and he's bringing with him a friend called something with a 'K'. A turkish chap, I think. A diplomat or something, apparently. All in all, the whole thing is settled and it promises to be very dull, so it seems if I'm planning to marry Napier, a certain amount of tolerance for boredom is required.

Oh dear. Do I really want to go ahead with this? It's a bit late to ask that now, I suppose. Mama's acting like she's already booked the church. It wouldn't surprise me if she had.

Matthew Crawley came to visit today, after work. It was a very quick visit, just to ask Papa something about the village.

"Are you all ready for Edith?" I asked him.

He looked taken aback. "Are y-you coming with us? To see the churches?"

"Oh god, no." I said, "There's a hunting expedition on that day. Besides which, Edith would kill me. She's got big plans for you."

He looked a little irritated. Good. I love the idea that I can irritate Cousin Matthew.

"No, it's not like that. She's just being kind."

"Is she?" I said, "That's strange. She's never shown any interest in churches before..."

I swear, I saw Matthew blush.

"No, but... I mean, she... it's not..."

" Don't be so coy, Cousin Matthew. I think you and Edith would make a lovely couple."

"We're not a couple!"

"Don't be so defensive."

"I'm not being defensive, I just... Cousin Edith offered to show me around the churches and I accepted. There is nothing untoward going on. I don't want you getting the wrong impression about your sister and I. She's not in the least bit interesting to me. She means nothing."

For some reason, what he said irked me. I don't know why. Everything Matthew Crawley says seems to irk me.

"Don't talk about her that way." I said.

"Oh, I didn't mean it like that and you know it. Besides, I've heard you say far worse about her."

"That's quite different." I said, "She's _my _sister."

* * *

**5th July 1912. **

When I said 'love was in the air', I had been referring to Edith and Matthew. I never thought that romance might blossom between Matthew and _somebody else._ Edith is in for some competition it seems... or maybe not. Matthew seems to have acquired an admirer, and despite the constant raptures from said admirer, Matthew seems to be completely immune to her charms. In fact, he's rather horrified. Perhaps I should explain?

Isis _adores_ Matthew. Matthew does not adore Isis.

I'm not sure how this came about. I know that Matthew often accompanies Papa on his morning walks when they have business to discuss, and from what I can understand, Matthew being a lot younger and more energetic than Papa, Isis found she had a more willing playmate. I never thought of Isis as being starved for attention, but in many ways she still thinks like a puppy and I think a few idle games of 'fetch' may have excited her more tender feelings. Now she positively bounces off the walls whenever Matthew walks through the door. She jumps all over him.

Matthew thought it was sweet at first, but he started to think it was less sweet when she jumped up on him at dinner last week and left two giant paw prints on his dress shirt. He thought it less sweet again when Sybil went to show Matthew a pamphlet she was reading on a liberal candidate, and Isis growled at her when she got too close him. I'm serious, she actually _growled. _It's so out of character for Isis, and I'm the only person in the entire house who finds this hysterical.

Papa has taken to locking Isis in the library if he knows Matthew is coming over, but she pines so pitifully and scratches at the door. I almost feel sorry for the wretched animal. I've taken to teasing Matthew mercilessly about this, which he seems to be taking in good humour. He plays along and he acts exasperated, but he can't help but laugh too. It is all rather ridiculous.

"I hope Edith doesn't start pining for you as well." I said, "We'd have a great deal more trouble keeping her locked in the library."

Matthew smiled but said, "I wish you'd let that go. Nothing is going to happen between Edith and me."

"No." I said, "Not if Isis has anything to say about it."

* * *

**6th July 1912.**

Evelyn Napier arrives tomorrow, as does his turkish friend, the diplomat. Mama says she's going to invite Matthew to join us all for dinner, to which Papa positively paled because Isis is worse than ever.

**Mary Crawley's List of Things That Could Potentially Cause a Diplomatic Incident: **

**Isis.**

I must say, I'm not really looking forward to this at all. I thought that getting involved with Mr Napier would be the ideal solution to losing Downton but now, as the hour draws near, I find myself remembering how very dull he was last season. All he talks about is hunting. And now Mama has ordered that I have to ride out with them tomorrow, which is horrific because I haven't ridden in weeks and truth be told, I'm not quite as fond as hunting as I sometimes like to make out. In fact, I find it rather gruesome. Maybe I'm just exaggerating. I'm sure it won't be so bad.

Good lord, I wish I didn't have to be so picky.

* * *

**7th July 1912.**

Early morning start – no sign of Mr Napier yet. I'm going to head downstairs now and join the rest of the hunting party. I'm sure it won't be as bad as I'm expecting.

A Viscountcy is very good, but not much use if you have to gnaw off your own hands with boredom.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO COMING SOON... (probably whether you want it to or not).


	2. Chapter 2

**7****th**** July 1912 Continued...**

It is now late at night, and I'm just about to get ready for bed. I must say, the day was rather more exciting than I expected. That is to say, Evelyn Napier is still as dull as ever but his friend, Mr Kamal Pamuk... even now I'm swooning. He's an _Adonis. _

It's not just that he's handsome, (but oh god, is he handsome), but he's charming and he lives the most incredible life. We didn't talk much during the hunt – we raced, and we jumped over streams, and we laughed... in fact, we didn't really get much hunting done. After a while I forgot that Evelyn Napier was even there. Mama will not be best pleased.

Over dinner he told me all about life in Istanbul and, as Edith so helpfully pointed out, I giggled and sighed and probably made cow-eyes at him all evening. Honestly, I've never felt so pathetic in all my life. Evelyn was seated a couple of seats away from me, which I found odd, considering Mama's complete lack of tact in trying to fix us up. I'm surprised she didn't seat him on top of me. Never the less, he was seated close enough to interrupt Kamal's story every five minutes, which after a while really started to grate – on both me and Kamal.

**Mary Crawley's List of Things That Could Potentially Cause a Diplomatic Incident: **

**1. Isis.**

**2. Evelyn Napier?**

"You should travel more." Kamal was saying to me, "I can tell. You're like me. You have a restless spirit and you'll never be happy if you stick in one place too long."

Evelyn chipped in, "I have to disagree, old chap. I don't think Lady Mary would much like life on the road. All that dust, the sleepless nights, the lack of comfort... Lady Mary is a queen, and deserves to be treated like one." With this, he raised his glass.

Vomit. Although I wasn't about to argue with someone who was telling the room I should be treated like a 'queen'.

Kamal didn't falter. He raised his glass and said, "I can't argue with that. But perhaps you don't know her as well as you think you do? Lady Mary needs constant excitement. It's like air to her."

He has such a way with words. I felt quite faint.

"She does _not." _Said Napier, rather flatly.

A voice at the other end of the table decided to join in our conversation, which struck me as odd, because he really was at _the other end of the table, _which meant he would have had to strain to hear what we were saying across the conversations of the other guests.

"Gentlemen," Matthew said, "Mary is very much her own woman. She can make up her own mind without help from either of you. Isn't that right, Mary?"

The words were said with an unusual amount of vehemence. Coldness, too. I remembered that his outing with Edith was today, and I wondered if something had happened to make him angry. Whatever the case, the solicitor has some bite. I made a note right then and there to try to keep Matthew and Kamal away from each other if this was the sort of mood that Matthew was going to be in.

"Quite agree, Cousin Matthew." I said, sweetly. I was in no mood to fight with him tonight, but mark my words, Matthew will pay for his interruption in no small way later.

**Mary Crawley's List of Things That Could Potentially Cause a Diplomatic Incident: **

**1. Isis.**

**2. Evelyn Napier? **

**3. Matthew Crawley. **

After dinner, Evelyn and Kamal continued their bickering. Obviously, The Heir Apparent was feeling left out because he seemed to follow our party around the room and decided to interrupt both Kamal and Evelyn to ask me inane questions. Was I fond of architecture? Did I play any musical instruments? Would I ever go horse-riding with him? (My respective answers were no, yes, and oh god, no). Across the room, even his own Mother looked exasperated with him. Kamal Pamuk is the most exciting thing to happen to Downton Abbey in about 200 years, and Evelyn Napier is supposed to be my future husband, and Matthew was just... I don't know, _ruining everything_. Why wasn't he following Edith?

I made my escape to the gallery with Kamal. He was very forward – a bit too forward, perhaps – but he kissed me passionately and when I finally went to bed, I felt happy. I can't remember the last time I felt this happy. Oh, Kamal.

Before I climbed the stairs, Matthew grabbed my arm and asked me if I was alright and if I needed "rescuing from Pamuk" or some such nonsense. I know he was trying to be chivalrous, but honestly. The man is an idiot.

I contemplated letting Isis out of the library before I climbed the stairs. After all, Evelyn had retired for the night and so had Kamal, so it was only Papa and Matthew left to smoke cigars. Isis, of course, was desperate to escape, and was pining for Matthew again.

I didn't let her out in the end, but it would have served Matthew right if I did.

Anyway, Anna's here. Off to bed. Sweet dreams!

* * *

**8th July 1912**

I'm the idiot. Oh god, I've done something terrible.

I'm sorry. Oh Mama, I'm so sorry. I know you'll never forgive me.

* * *

**27th September 1912**

I haven't written in a long time. I haven't felt equal to it. To be honest, I thought I might give up on the whole diary idea altogether. The best place for this book is probably in the fireplace. But the horrid truth of the matter is, I think I need this. I have to get my thoughts out on the page or I will go mad.

Kamal Pamuk is dead. He had a heart attack. I've been very, very stupid.

I can't talk about it here.

Mama won't meet my eye. She knows the truth of what happened, and Anna does too – although Anna has been more sympathetic and more supportive than I would ever have given another human being credit for. Bates too, as I suspect she might have confided in him. Certainly, they've both been kinder to me than I've ever deserved. I don't know if I'll ever be able to repay Anna for what she's done.

Let me tell you dear diary, as I cannot tell anyone else, that for once in my life I feel the full weight of my own stupidity.

* * *

**28th September 1912**

I think I've lost weight. My corsets don't pinch as much as they used to and, as Edith likes to point out, my face is starting to look a bit gaunt.

"Well," she said, "gaunter than usual."

I watched in the reflection of my dressing mirror, as Sybil leaned over the bed and pinched Edith in the ribs. I suppose there's some truth in what Edith was saying. I don't seem to have much of an appetite lately. But then, it's hard to eat when you feel like everyone is staring at you.

Sybil said, "We're just worried about you, that's all. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course." I said, "Why wouldn't I be?" But even to myself, my voice seemed to lack conviction.

"No reason, particularly." Sybil said, "But you're awfully quiet lately, and everyone seems to be commenting on it." Oh, how lovely. I love being the subject of gossip. "Matthew says you're avoiding him. Cousin Isobel thinks you must be depressed."

That was a half-truth. I _was_ avoiding Matthew, but only because he seems to have tripled the number of visits he's been making to the house. I still see him about twice a week. He's trying so hard to be my friend, but I can't face the worried look in his eyes, or his silly jokes, or the way he insists on fetching me everything. Want some wine, Cousin Mary? No? I'll fetch you a glass anyway. How about an extra cushion? No? Well, here it is, have one anyway. Good god, you'd think I was an invalid. Every kind gesture I get from Matthew Crawley makes me feel ten times worse. I don't deserve to be petted. If Matthew knew the truth about me, he'd never speak to me again.

Oh god, I feel sick.

Shortly after Anna finished dressing me, Mama arrived to tell us that dinner was about to be served, and dutifully Sybil and Edith both went downstairs. Anna followed them shortly after. For the first time in a long time, it was just me and Mama in the same room. I wanted her to say something. I just wanted her to _look at me_.

But "I'll see you down there." was all I got.

* * *

**29th September 1912**

Oh HELL'S HORSES, I completely forgot that it's Carson's birthday on Friday. I haven't bought him a damn thing. Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN. I know I shouldn't swear, but I'm probably going to hell anyway, so I might as well make it worth the trip. DAMN.

I've been so wrapped up in my own woes, that the date completely passed me by. Carson, who's always been so good to me. _My Carson._ I haven't got a clue what to buy him. Papa has gotten him some dusty history book or other. Sybil bought him a watch. Edith bought him a comb. I, on the other hand, have bought him nothing. I have to find him something tomorrow or I'm really in the soup.

This requires some thought.

* * *

**30th September 1912**

This is how I have spent my day:

**Two hours at the Dowager House, having tea with Granny. **My darling grandmother has all the tact of a full-speed locomotive, and consequently 'two hours of having tea' quickly translated into 'two hours of being lectured about why I should stop grieving over that 'dead foreigner' and 'get on with my life'.' If only she knew.

**Twenty-minutes of being lectured by Dr Clarkson. **(Because apparently today is my day for being lectured). I ran into Clarkson outside the Grantham Arms and he gave me a stern talking to about not eating properly. I suspect Cousin Isobel has put him up to this. No, actually I_ know_ Cousin Isobel put him up to this. I eat just fine, thank you very much.

**Three and a half hours of looking for a birthday present for Carson in Ripon. **To no avail.

**Four minutes hiding from Matthew behind Redfern and Sons' butchers. **(I don't want to talk about it).

And finally:

**Forty minutes walking home in the pouring rain. **I arrived home too late to change for dinner, but I made my excuses and told Papa I had a headache. This suited everyone else just fine. I had some sandwiches in my room and spent my evening cursing Carson for daring to have a birthday.

All in all, not a very productive day.

* * *

**2nd October 1912**

Carson's birthday is tomorrow and I still haven't got him anything. This predicament is made worse by the fact that Carson has been so kind to me lately. That is to say, Carson has always been kind to me, but lately he's been positively doting.

He hasn't been trying to smother me like certain other males I could mention, but there have been little gestures from him. Like cutting the crusts off my sandwiches, (he used to do that for me when I was little), or making me a cup of cocoa before I go to bed. Sometimes I catch him looking at me and he looks so sad – and that just makes me feel more guilty and more miserable, because then I realise I'm bringing down Carson too. I'm a misery machine.

To my shame, I don't always thank Carson for all these little things he does. I'm fully aware that I can be a spoilt brat and I have no illusions about it, But besides which, I've never been terribly good at finding the right words to say to people. This is why his birthday is so important. I want him to know how much these things mean to me, even if I can't always say it.

Anyway, I have to go. I'm going to head into the village and have one last attempt at finding Carson a present, and then it's off to Crawley House to have tea with Granny, Mama and Cousin Isobel. I'm determined to find a present for Carson, or die in the attempt.

Similarly, Cousin Isobel is on a mission to feed me Battenberg Cake until my corset explodes.

* * *

**2nd October 1912 Continued...**

I spent about two hours in the village trying to find a present, with no luck. By the time I made it to Crawley House it was nearly one o'clock and I was already running hideously late. Molesley, I assume, was serving tea in the parlour, because it was the housemaid that let me in the front door and took my coat. Fancy having a housemaid answering your front door. Carson would have had an apoplectic fit. I suppose they're not very fastidious about doing things properly at Crawley House.

I gave the girl my coat and she scurried off to hang it up somewhere. I was about to walk into the parlour and announce myself, when I caught wind of what Granny and Isobel were talking about and it stopped me in my tracks.

"She won't listen to me." Granny was saying, "Lord knows, I've tried. All she does is mope and sigh. She's not like Mary at all."

There was the usual clink of tea cups and saucers. Isobel added, "But was she very attached to the turkish gentleman? I was under the impression she didn't know him very well. She can't still be grieving for him?"

My mother said, a little too quickly, "What makes you think she's grieving over the turkish gentleman?"

"Matthew seems to think she is. He said they'd formed quite an attachment over dinner."

Another clink, more forceful, a teacup slammed down onto a saucer.

"Well then, Matthew is wrong. Mary didn't pay Mr Pamuk much attention, as far as I could tell." My mother is a terrible liar. "She is probably still depressed over Patrick, that's all."

Granny nearly inhaled her tea. "Depressed over Patrick? She wasn't depressed over Patrick six months ago. What, has she had a lobotomy you haven't told us about?"

Cousin Isobel, ever the diplomat, said something under her breath that I suppose was meant to be placatory, but Granny would not be silenced.

"No." She said, "She's clearly upset about the turk. There's something Mary isn't telling us, I know there is. I'll find the truth out, one way or another."

I heard my mother sigh, go to say something, and then change her mind. When she did eventually open her mouth she was practically whispering and I had to lean closer to the door to try and make out what she was saying.

"What are you doing?" a male voice said into ear. I nearly jumped ten feet. I was trying so hard to hear what the old hens were clucking about, I hadn't noticed Matthew sneaking up behind me. He'd obviously come home from the office – he had his blue business suit on, a brown necktie and of course, that stupid trilby. There are days when I want to smack that hat clean off his head. Today was one of those days.

"What are you doing here?" I said.

"Um, I live here."

"No, what are you doing here _now? _During the day. Shouldn't you be soliciting, or whatever it is you do?"

He smiled.

"They're doing some painting at the office." He waved his briefcase at me, "I thought I might take the opportunity to 'solicit' from the comfort of my own home this afternoon." his smile faltered, "But that doesn't answer my question. What are you doing?"

There was an awkward silence. From the parlour, I could hear the shrill voice of Granny denouncing the entire turkish embassy. I winced. It was embarrassing enough to hear your own family talking about Kamal Pamuk, but if Matthew heard them gossiping I know I would die of shame. He must have caught the look on my face, because he took off his hat and offered me his arm.

"Come on." He said, "I was going to eat my lunch in the kitchen, away from the..." he waved his hat dismissively at the parlour, "... the _female parliament_ that's in session. Why don't you join me?"

I hesitated in taking his arm for all of two seconds. Anything to get away from Granny.

So I spent a rather enjoyable hour or so sitting at the kitchen table with Matthew, eating cheese sandwiches and watching Mrs Bird make shortbread. I can't remember much about what we talked about. I remember Matthew trying to shove a biscuit into his mouth without chewing and nearly choking himself to death, which earned him a scolding off Mrs Bird. His face went bright red, although he cheered up a little when he saw me laughing.

"You should do that more often."

I blinked. It took me a moment to catch on to what he was saying.

"Laugh." he clarified. "You haven't laughed in ages."

This was followed by a lengthy and rather awkward silence as I tried to decide how I felt about what he'd just said, and I finally concluded that I wasn't appalled by it, and actually it was rather a pleasant thing for him to say. But, like everything else in my life, the words to express what I was thinking seemed to fail me. I just nodded and bit into another sandwich.

"So," he said, "what have you been doing today?"

I was grateful for the change in topic. It wouldn't do for me to become_ too fond_ of Mr Matthew Crawley.

"Trying to find a birthday present for Carson." I said, "I wanted to get him something special, but I've had no luck."

Matthew smiled, "I could help. Offer a male perspective, maybe? When is his birthday?"

I winced. "See, that's the problem. His birthday is tomorrow. I'm done for."

Matthew winced too. "Crikey. You're cutting it a bit fine, aren't you?"

I bit into another sandwich to stop myself from saying something sarcastic. Oh, really? Cutting it 'a bit fine', am I? I hadn't noticed, darling. Thank you for pointing that out.

"Well," said Matthew, "have you any ideas?"

If I had any ideas, I would have bought something by now, but I didn't say that to Matthew either. I just shrugged.

"All I know is that I want it to be special. I want it to mean something. Like a watch, except Sybil has already bought him a watch. Or cufflinks maybe, but I think I might have got him those last year..." I sighed, "... any help would be much appreciated."

I watched Mrs Bird take another tray of biscuits out of the oven, the smell of warm shortbread filling the kitchen. Matthew nudged me. "The thing is," he said, "is that Carson already thinks you walk on water. You could buy him socks for his birthday, and he'd still idolise you. You don't need to get him an expensive present."

I already knew that, but it was still sweet of him of him to say and I appreciated it.

"I don't need an expensive present. I just need a special one."

Matthew looked at me rather oddly, like I'd confused him.

"Because it's for _Carson." _I said, because I thought that might explain things better. It didn't. Matthew still looked confused. In the end he just smiled and shook his head.

"Well, I never!" he said.

"What?"

"It's just..." he stuffed another piece of shortbread into his mouth and mumbled, "...oh, never mind. It was nothing."

_"What?" _I insisted.

"Nothing. Listen," Matthew said, "If you really want it to be special, then I think I have just the thing."


	3. Chapter 3

Hi everyone! Just a quick note to say thank you for all the wonderful feedback I've been getting! I was so worried when I first posted this. You've all been so kind and I'm glad you seem to get my twisted sense of humour. Remember, feedback is always appreciated and I'm also completely susceptible to bribery.

Also, I should insert a disclaimer here about how Julian Fellows actually owns the characters, but if he's anything like me then it's probably more accurate to say the characters own _him_. Anyway, I'm just borrowing said characters for now, and I promise I'll return them in more or less the same state when I'm finished with them.

* * *

**3rd October 1912**

Carson's birthday.

I must say, it turns out that Cousin Matthew is much smarter than he looks, (although given his current taste in fashion, that's not saying much. I really must have a talk with him about some of his choices in regards to clothing. I'm sure Molesley will back me up. I'll make a note to pursue this idea later).

I called round at Crawley House first thing this morning, and when I say 'first thing' I really do mean_ 'first thing'._ I haven't been up before eight o'clock since I was a little girl, and I must say the experience has very little to recommend it. Matthew, of course, was waiting for me at the servant's entrance of the house and it goes without saying that he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as per usual. I don't know how he can function at that time in the morning. When he saw the look on my face at having been dragged out of bed at so early an hour, he did a very poor job of stifling his chuckles. I was not best pleased.

I thrust my hat and coat at him, but I was in no mood for his playfulness. It's safe to say I'm not a morning person. In fact, I may have utilised a few of the more colourful words in my vocabulary, at which Mr Crawley feigned shock and accused me of being unladylike, but ultimately it only made him laugh harder.

This whole thing was Matthew's plan, of course. Mrs Bird was there, laying all the ingredients out on the kitchen counter, huffing and mumbling all the while. She looked about as happy to be in that kitchen as I was, (which is to say, not very happy at all). Matthew had the cookery book open at the appropriate page. Scottish Shortbread Biscuits. Carson's favourite.

"Mrs Bird is only here as an independent observer." He said, "You have to do this yourself, or the present won't mean anything."

Independent observer, my foot. I can read between the lines. Mrs Bird was there in case I did something stupid, like burn down the kitchen. After all, I am an aristocrat and all aristocrats are supposed to be hopelessly stupid, aren't they? And Mrs Bird wouldn't want me to do anything silly like burn the biscuits, or use the wrong amount of flour, or say, stick Matthew's head in the oven.

"And what, pray tell, is your role in this?" I asked him.

"I am also an independent observer."

"What?" I admit it, my heart sank, "So you mean, you're not helping me?"

He grinned. "No. You have to do it yourself. Or it-..."

"...-doesn't mean anything. Thank you, Matthew. I think I understand the position now."

I snatched the book out of his hand with no small amount of spite. I had rather hoped that Matthew was going to help me make the biscuits. I hadn't counted on measuring the ingredients myself and I suddenly had this horrible idea that I was going to make it all wrong and Carson would hate the biscuits. Of course, Carson would never say that he hated them. I could probably mix them with rat poison, and he'd still feel obliged to keep eating them. I read the recipe through three or four times until the words started to blur. Honestly, baking something? _Me?_ What was I thinking? The whole book might as well been written in ancient greek.

"Come along, Mary." said Matthew, "We don't have all day."

"I-..." I felt rather panicky. Me, Mary Crawley, the pragmatist. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" cried Mrs Bird, "you begin by washing your hands! Then you can measure out the flour using the measuring cylinder." I looked at her, blankly.

"Go on!" she ordered and I stepped into action.

A simple biscuit recipe that should have taken no more than an hour actually ended up taking three. The first batch came out hard as bricks and of course, Matthew thought this was absolutely hysterical, (or he did until I pelted one at him,which I confess,_ I_ found absolutely hysterical). The second batch I burnt, which seemed to be funnier still. By the third batch though, I was starting to have fun. The biscuits came out perfect. Just like the ones that Mrs Bird had made the day before. I knew they must have looked right, because I could see Matthew's hand inching towards the cooling rack.

"No." I smacked his hand, but playfully. "They're for Carson."

"They need to be tested first." he said, "What if there's something wrong with them? The poor man could be killed."

"Killed?!" I think I must have squawked, "I followed that recipe exactly! How dare you!"

He snatched a biscuit quickly and bit into it before I could stop him. He closed his eyes while he chewed and I watched him eagerly, awaiting some kind of reaction. He took a long time chewing, but he didn't spit the biscuit out, which I supposed was a good sign. He finished the rest of the biscuit off in two bites, but still didn't tell me his opinion.

"Well?" I said.

"Well, what?"

"What's the verdict? Are the biscuits any good?"

He appeared deep in thought. "I don't know. I might need to have another to find out."

I smacked him in the chest, leaving a great floury handprint on the lapels of his suit jacket.

"You've been nothing but a hinderance, Matthew Crawley. I ought to set Isis on you."

"It wouldn't work. Isis loves me, remember? She's on my side."

"Well, see if I make such an effort for your birthday! You'll be getting socks."

"I like socks." he said happily, and I rolled my eyes.

Once the biscuits had cooled, we wrapped them up in brown paper, placed them in a little basket and Matthew found some blue ribbon to tie around the handle. I admit it myself, the end result was very smart. I couldn't stop staring at it.

I washed the flour off my hands and Mrs Bird tidied all the ingredients away, (so what if I can bake now? I absolutely draw the line at cleaning). By the time Matthew had fetched my coat, it was almost lunchtime, and I knew I only just about had time to get back home and change before the family were going to present Carson with his gifts.

"Thank you Mrs Bird!" I called from the doorway, "And thank you Matthew! I am indebted to you. Even if you are a big hinderance."

"Wait!" he called.

"What?"

I was halfway out the door and anxious to be getting home. The basket hooked over one arm, I stood staring out into the village, thinking about how long it would take me to walk home. By the time I turned my head to bark at Matthew again, I realised he was already behind me. That boy is far too quiet.

"What is it?" I said again, although my voice sounded strange, even to me. He really was quite close. Too close to be considered proper. I was about to say something when Matthew slowly, very slowly, pressed the pad of his thumb against my cheek and brushed it across the skin. It was the strangest thing. It was the lightest of touches but even when he pulled his hand away, my cheek felt warm and I swear I could still feel the heat of his thumb there, touching my skin. I hadn't realised I'd stopped breathing until he pulled away.

"You had a smudge of flour. Right there." he smiled. I didn't know quite what to say. I didn't know if I would have been able to say it, even if I did. "It's gone now." he added.

"Thank you." I said. And with the basket on one arm, I turned to walk back to Downton.

I know it sounds strange, but it was such an odd little gesture and I've been thinking about it all day. Damn you, Matthew Crawley. If he tries it again, I'll set Isis on him. No, worse. I'll set _Granny_ on him. Then he'll be sorry.

Oh, and perhaps I should mention, Carson loved the biscuits.

* * *

**5th October 1912**

Matthew hasn't visited in days. Well, two days to be precise. But it's very odd, considering that he's been around here so often.

Not that I care. Only Isis is getting depressed.

* * *

**6th October 1912**

It's been a while since I last spied on Anna and Bates. I'd promised myself that I wasn't going to do it anymore, but dear diary – there's been a _development._

One of Bate's handkerchiefs went missing last week. That news isn't very exciting in and of itself, except that the handkerchief was silk, and it was a present from Papa, and Mr Bates had his initials sewn into it, etc etc. I think Papa was more distraught than Bates was. Even to boring old Bates, a handkerchief isn't worth getting excited about.

But, (and this IS worth getting excited about), guess who stole the handkerchief? That's right, Anna! I saw her playing with it when she thought I wasn't looking and I could see the initials on the thing quite clearly. They said 'J.B'. When Anna realised I was watching her, she quickly stuffed the thing back into her apron.

'J.B.' As in 'John Bates'. Do you see?

I'd never tell on her, of course. I've not even let on that I know. I owe a lot to Anna and, after all, a girl's allowed some secrets.

* * *

**8th October 1912**

Where the devil is Matthew?! No one has seen hide nor hair of him in days. I do hope he's alright. I'm starting to get rather cross with him.

* * *

**9th October 1912**

I've decided I'm not talking to Matthew. Edith saw him in the village and apparently, he was right as rain. Righter, in fact. Edith said he was practically cheerful.

"I might even ask if he wants to do any more church-visiting." she said over tea this morning, "he looked so glad to see me."

"Who?" I asked innocently.

"Who do you think? Mat-..." Edith stopped as Isis lifted her head off the carpet. You can't say the 'M' would around Isis anymore. She gets excitable. "_You know who._" Edith finished, irritably.

"Well, good luck with that." I said. If Matthew wants to do any more church-visiting, then I'm a monkey's uncle. But Edith can try and bait me if she likes. It won't work. Are you reading this Edith? IT WON'T WORK.

But needless to say, I'm still cross with Matthew.


	4. Chapter 4

_Submitted for your approval, please find attached Chapter Four. Actually, I've just quickly glanced over what I've written to try and weed out any spelling mistakes, and I can honestly say that I'm starting to worry myself. I apologise in advance for what you are about to read. There are no excuses. _

_Thank you so much for your Favs, your Follows and your Reviews – your kind words feed my starving soul. If you want to feed me more, please do! But even if you don't, I'll probably keep writing this anyway. Ta ta for now!_

* * *

**10th October 1913**

Ever since the Pamuk incident, Mama has not been right with me. I know she loves me, but the truth is I'm spoiled in her eyes. I catch her looking at me sometimes and she looks so sad. I'm such a disappointment to her and I can't tell you how it pains me.

This morning I was due to help Mama and Sybil as they were clearing out some of the old toys in the attic for the village children. Cousin Isobel was there too, of course. She loves charity. In fact, she's obsessed with it. I don't even know how she got in the house, but it wouldn't surprise me if she climbed in through a window or something. Isobel Crawley can smell a charity event from over a mile away.

As I was sorting through a box of old dolls, Sybil and Isobel got to talking about Matthew. I'd more or less decided to dispose of the entire box, seeing as I always thought that dolls were rather macabre and inflicting a box of them on some unsuspecting children seemed to be a decidedly uncharitable thing to do.

"Oh yes," Isobel was saying, "Matthew's perfectly fine. He's rather excited, actually. We're having some guests at Crawley House and I can't wait for you to meet them. They arrived yesterday." I stopped rummaging through the box. So _that's_ why he'd disappeared. He'd thrown me over to spend time with somebody else. What a typically male thing to do. My rage was palpable.

"Guests?" Mama said, "What guests? Anyone we should know?"

"Oh no, no one you would know." Isobel said, "I've invited a couple of Matthew's old friends from Manchester to come and stay for a few days. I thought it might do him some good to see someone from his old life. He hasn't really made any friends here."

_'Hasn't really made any friends here'? _What am I, chopped liver? In an uncharacteristic moment of tact, I managed to bite my lip. It would be very bad of me to criticise Matthew for wanting to spend time with his friends, especially seeing as we'd gotten off to such a rocky start. Still, I can't deny that Isobel's words stung.

Sybil however was delighted, "That was such a good idea. You should invite them for dinner so we can all meet them."

Isobel busied herself with a pile of mouldy old children's book. She blew some dust off them and checked the pages for mildew.

"I can invite them if you like, but I don't know how well-received they'd be by certain people."

"Why?" said Sybil.

"Well, Winston Farley is Matthew's oldest friend. They grew up together and they studied at the bar at the same time. In fact, it was Winston's father who gave Matthew his first job when he left university."

"That's nice." Mama said, "Of course you should invite him." But even she didn't sound terribly convinced. I could hear Granny's shrill voice in my head. _'Of course, invite him. You can never have too many solicitors at a dinner party.'_

Isobel was looking very intently at the books. I decided to look very intently at the dolls. I didn't recognise any of them and I suspect they might have been Edith's.

"And then," Isobel said, "of course there is Margaret Farley, Winston's younger sister. She and Matthew used to be sweethearts, but you know they're still very close. I know it would do him some good to spend some time with her."

"Are you alright Mary?" Sybil asked. I looked down at my hands and I realised I had one of the dolls in a kind of strangle-hold. But since she asked, no, I wasn't alright. I felt like I'd just been punched in the stomach. So, I was just about good enough to socialise with whilst he was bored, but as soon as he gets a more tempting offer I get tossed aside like a, like a... box of old dolls? I was furious. Matthew is in SERIOUS trouble the next time I lay eyes on him.

I smiled my most sincerest, charming smile at Sybil. My 'aren't I a darling?' smile. It works on almost everyone. Everyone, apparently, but Sybil.

"I'm wonderful," I said, "thanks for asking."

No, Sybil wasn't convinced. Neither was I. Blessedly, Mama and Cousin Isobel didn't notice.

"So, it's settled then." Mama was saying. "Invite them to dinner tomorrow night, we would love to get to know Matthew's friends. He's part of this family now."

Isobel's smile was genuine. "I'm so happy to hear that, and I'm sure Matthew will be too. I'll tell them all tonight."

* * *

**10th October 1912 continued...**

Matthew was not happy to hear that. Matthew was not happy to hear that _at all._

I heard it from Anna, who heard it from Thomas, who heard it from Molesley down at Crawley House. Apparently, Matthew nearly hit the roof when Cousin Isobel told him that his friends were invited to dinner. I'm not sure what to make of this information. Could it be that Cousin Matthew, who has been so welcomed into the bosom of this family, is... ashamed of us?

Alright, so maybe 'welcomed into the bosom of the family' is a bit misleading. It would be more accurate to say he was marched into the bosom of the family at gunpoint. He didn't want this inheritance and he doesn't love Downton, (and if I'm completely honest just thinking about 'The Great Matter' still turns my stomach a little bit). He may not want the inheritance from Papa, but I thought at least he had some regard for this family. I thought at least he had some regard for_ me._

I rather think I've been thrown over. Thrown over _by a solicitor._ Oh god. How has this happened?

Edith is practically catatonic with glee. She anticipates that I'm going to be in a foul mood tomorrow night when the Farleys come to dinner. If there's one thing that I hate more than being thrown over by solicitors, it's being crowed at by Edith. I'm going to show her. I had an emergency meeting with Anna before bed. I've picked out my favourite dress – the red and gold one, with all the lace trimmings. Matthew has complimented it before, and I know for a fact that he likes it. Anna thinks the diamond stars would go best in my hair and I still have some of my favourite perfume left.

I've been depressed for far too long. I'm going to dress up to the nines tomorrow night and then, when Matthew walks through the door, I am going to act like he isn't even there. Let's see how he likes being ignored.

* * *

**11****th**** October 1912**

I haven't slept a wink. This won't do. How am I supposed to torture Matthew if I have bags under my eyes? Anna suggests using cucumber slices?

I told Sybil about my plan to ignore Matthew. She thinks it's very childish. She also pointed out that it's a little ironic that I'm going to extraordinary lengths to act like I don't really care about Matthew. I told her, I wouldn't consider these lengths extraordinary, per se. Besides which, I don't care about Matthew.

Sybil just gave me a look. Sybil is far too smart for her own good.

Anyway, there's a been a bit of a disaster. I've ran out of the perfume I said I liked. It's not really a disaster, I suppose, but I can't borrow any scent off Sybil because she only wears musk, which I can't stand. Mama still thinks I'm a ruined woman, so I have trouble asking her the time of day let alone if I can borrow any perfume and Edith? Well, I'd die before I asked to borrow something off Edith.

I still have a little bit of rose oil left, so that will have to do. I don't plan to get close enough to be smelt, anyway.

* * *

**11****th**** October 1912 continued...**

DISASTER.

THE RED DRESS IS RUINED.

My whole plan has gone up in smoke. My dress, despite being pressed only last night, somehow went missing from my dressing room this morning and, for some reason, it has ended up lining Isis' dog bed in Papa's bedroom. It's unwearable. It may never be wearable again. I could cry.

Nobody seems to have any idea how it got there, (EDITH), but I'm sure the culprit will be found and made to confess in due course. I think this might be related to an incident last night in which I might have inferred one of my sisters, (EDITH), closely resembled a walrus. But then again, these could be two completely unrelated incidents, (but I doubt it).

We have an hour to dress before Matthew and his friends arrive, and I'm still sitting on my bed in my corset and stays, silently fuming. The only thing pressed is this crème, silk dress that Aunt Rosamund picked out for me a few weeks back, not long after the Pamuk Incident. Of course, that was weeks ago and when I was measured for it I hadn't been eating properly. Now I'm back up to my normal weight and the dress is so tight I can hardly breathe. I'm going to be uncomfortable all night. I debated faking an illness, but Anna talked me out of it. Anna says, 'cowardice solves nothing', which I suppose is true. But I can't shake the feeling that squeezing into this dress is going to make me look like a string of sausage links.

Oh well, I don't suppose it matters. I can ignore Matthew just as well in a crème dress as in a red one. But the fact of the matter is, nobody is going to feel tortured and miserable if a string of sausage links ignore them. But what choice do I have?

I better dress. It's almost show time.

* * *

**12****th**** October 1912**

Dear diary, I have had the strangest night.

We all gathered in the main hall to greet Matthew and his friends at eight o'clock – the gentlemen were in white tie, the introductions were made, Granny made some uncouth remark about the middle class and everyone looked suitably awkward for a while. This was all before we even made it to the dining room.

Winston Farley seems nice enough. He has black, curly hair and very small eyes. He's certainly not as handsome as Matthew, or at least that's what I would have thought if I had even spared Matthew a glance last night, which I didn't.

Margaret – or 'Mags', as Matthew so delightfully refers to her – looks a lot like her brother. She's very thin and a little short for Matthew, but it didn't stop her from hanging off his arm. But you know, they did used to be _sweethearts _and they're both middle-class, so what do I care? I hope they have many happy solicitor-children.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Mama said to our guests as we began the arduous task of walking in to dine. My eyes were focused up front, not at Matthew, and certainly not at 'Mags'. "How are you enjoying you stay?"

"We're having a splendid time." Winston said, "Downton really is a beautiful place."

"And it's so nice to see our Matthew again!" said a female voice that I suspect was Mags, but I didn't look behind me to check. There was emphasis on the word _'our'._ Somebody snorted at that remark and I was surprised to find it came from Carson. Carson and I exchanged a glance. So, Carson didn't think very much of Miss Farley either? I knew I could rely on him.

Dinner wasn't much better. I kept quiet for the most part, but the dress was very tight and Mags seemed intent on finishing Matthew's sentences and picking lint off his tails. I could tell from Carson's face that he thought she was very fast indeed, but the hard truth is unless she's had a turkish diplomat die in her bed, I'm in no position to comment. She could have been a little more subtle in her flirting but it doesn't matter seeing as Matthew was lapping up the attention anyway. I was trying so hard to ignore them that it almost completely passed me by when Winston Farley tried to make polite conversation with me

"... don't you agree, Lady Mary?"

I smiled my most sincerest, charming smile. My 'aren't I a darling?' smile. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sybil wince.

"Yes, Mr Farley. I'm sure I do!"

"And we've all heard so much about you," he was saying, "I was rather hoping to get an opportunity to meet you before Mags and I went back up north."

My heart skipped. "You were? You've only been hearing good things I hope."

Winston smiled, as one of the footman lowered a plate of fruit just low enough for him to help himself. "But of course. We've heard lots of good things. _Lots and lots. _Even the bad things sounded good."

I spared a glance at Matthew, who of course I had been trying very hard to ignore all evening. He was staring at Winston and he did not look happy. In fact, he looked positively murderous, holding his dessert spoon like it was a potential weapon.

"Well," I said, "I don't know who could possibly be telling you bad things about me. I'm positively an angel. I haven't got a single bad habit." Which was such a ridiculous lie, I think I heard Edith inhale a piece of melon and choke. Good.

"An angel, eh?" Winston smiled, "Well, you certainly look like one."

I smiled my most sincerest, charming smile and went back to ignoring him. And diary, I wish I could say my evening ended there... but it didn't.

The inevitable happened – the end of dinner. The women retired to the drawing room to feign polite conversation whilst the gentlemen were to stay behind in the dining room to smoke cigars and talk about all the things they think would bore the women.

I couldn't face the idea of spending another five minutes with that insipid woman. I know I sound cruel, but she really was becoming quite tedious. "Oh Matthew, you're so funny." "Oh Matthew, tell them about that picnic we went on!" "Oh Matthew, Matthew, Matthew..." She was giving me headache, and I'm positive I must have been acting like a bear all evening.

So, to spare my poor head, (and also to spare my poor family the embarrassment of having to peel me off her when I eventually snapped and tried to rip her hair out), I thought I'd retire to the library for a small while, at least until I heard the gentlemen go in and I could follow suit.

But, as you can probably guess, things did not go according to plan.

No sooner had I settled into an armchair with a biography about Oscar Wilde, (which – according to my father's library ledger – has been checked out of the library by Thomas no fewer than seven times. Curious?), then I heard voices coming from the hallway and the door to the library opened. In a moment of reflexive panic, I hid behind one of the velvet drapes by the window. I know Anna said that cowardice solves nothing, but I didn't have time to think. Just call me Uncle Claudius.

It was Winston and Matthew.

Winston was saying, "This is the library? Impressive."

I peeked through the join in the curtains to see Matthew move straight towards the drinks cabinet to my right. "Lord Grantham will join us in a minute. He says to help ourselves to brandy."

Winston grinned. He didn't grin like that at the dinner table. This was another Winston. Curiouser and curiouser.

"Help ourselves, eh? I'm sure he didn't mean it literally. If he knew how much brandy you and I could put away, he certainly wouldn't have made the offer."

"No," Matthew conceded, "I don't imagine he would. And you're on your best behaviour tonight, remember? You promised." He poured a generous glass and handed it to Winston. After a pouring one for himself he went and joined him on the sofa, their backs both turned to me.

"Speaking of 'best behaviour'," Winston said, "what was that, in there?"

Matthew took a sip from his glass, "What was what?"

"You know what." Winston affected his best imitation of Matthew, "'Oh gosh, Mags, let me pull your chair out for you. Let me tell you how pretty you look. Would you like me to chew your food for you?'" Matthew chuckled, despite himself, "This morning you were begging me to call my sister off you, and tonight you practically threw her on the dining table and had your way with her. You're so bloody changeable, Crawley. It won't do."

I felt my ears go red. It wasn't the choice of words I would have picked, but I'm glad I wasn't the only one who noticed Matthew's behaviour.

Matthew shook his head.

"I wasn't as bad as all that. I was just talking to her."

"Yes, but my point is you've spent almost our entire adult life trying to avoid talking to her. Mags irritates you. This wouldn't have anything to do with a certain...?"

"Don't say it. I'm warning you, Winston."

"Warn me, all you like." Winston fished a cigar out of his jacket pocket and unceremoniously bit the end off it, before spitting it into the fireplace. He walked over to the fire and crouched down in front of it, in order to light his cigar. Rocking back and forth on his heels, there was a moment of companionable silence. Then he said, "Lady Mary was nice, wasn't she?"

_"Winston."_

"I'm just saying, that's all. I thought she was lovely." He puffed on the cigar for a moment, and stared at it thoughtfully before adding, "And I really must say, Crawley... she has the most capital bottom."

"Winston!" Matthew sounded horrified.

"Well, she does. And don't try to pretend you hadn't noticed it, because we all saw you staring at it when she left the room." Winston sighed and he sounded almost wistful, "A truly, truly capital bottom."

"I wasn-... You shouldn't-...!" the great Matthew Crawley was lost for words. He foundered for a moment but eventually said, "I wasn't staring."

"You were. You nearly spilled your drink."

"I was _not._"

"That dress of hers was just heavenly, wasn't it? Oh god. I think I'm in love. Is this why you were trying so hard to keep me away from Downton? You wanted to keep her for yourself? Very sly, Crawley, although I would probably have done the same thing."

Matthew set his drink down with a rather large thunk.

"Don't you dare, Winston. Mary is strictly off-limits."

"Well, that's not fair now, is it? You can't have both Mags and Mary. Save some girls for us more homely-looking chaps, won't you?"

"I don't want Mags. Or, for that matter," he sounded rather strangled, "Mary."

"No." Winston didn't sound terribly convinced, "Of course you don't want Mary. Just her bottom."

Matthew sighed. "Oh god, did everyone notice?"

Winston exhaled a mouthful of smoke. "No, not everyone. I'm fairly certain she didn't notice, if that's any consolation. And his Lordship wasn't paying much attention either. Her Grandmother definitely did notice however, and I thought the poor old dear was going to have a heart attack."

"There's something you should know about the Dowager Countess." said Matthew. "She doesn't like being called 'poor', she doesn't like being called 'dear' and the jury is still out on whether or not she even has a heart." Matthew drew on his own cigar, looking pensive. "Did Cousin Violet really notice? I thought I did a good job of not staring."

"Well, you did a terrible job. And I can't say I blame you. Good god man, that woman's body is just sinful. She could make a grown man cry. Do you think she'd be interested in me?"

"No."

"Seriously though," said Winston. "I'm not unattractive and I own my own law firm now. I'm not too bad of a catch, even for the great Lady Mary."

"Winston, a cretin like you couldn't catch a woman like Mary if you owned a thousand law firms."

"Ouch."

"I mean it, Winston. Don't try anything with Mary. Don't even think about Mary. She's been through a lot and she deserves a l-..." Matthew stopped, lost in thought, "She's..." he stared at his glass. "Just leave her alone. I don't want to fall out over this."

Winston sat next him. "Message received, loud and clear."

"Good."

The conversation was cut short when Papa opened the door and walked into the room.

"I'm sorry about that." Papa said, "Carson was asking about a wine delivery. What are we talking about?"

Matthew didn't say anything but Winston smiled broadly.

"Your eldest daughter, actually. She's a delight."

"Mary?" My own father snorted, "She has some good attributes, I assure you. I'm sorry that she's been so rude tonight, I can't think what's gotten into her."

"Not at all," said Winston, "she's been charming."

"Can we talk about something else, please?" said Matthew.

If my father thought Matthew's request odd, he didn't mention it. They talked for about another half an hour about Manchester and the work that Winston's been doing. Matthew talked a little about the Downton Estates. It was all very boring of course, until Papa gathered up the courage to ask Matthew about Mags and the nature of their relationship, which seemed to signal an end to the 'brandy and cigars' portion of the evening.

Matthew stood up, setting his empty tumbler on the side table and adjusting his dinner jacket.

"Oh, Mags and I have been friends for years. Shall we go and join the ladies in the drawing room?"

Papa stood up and followed suit. "The thing is, Matthew... are you sure Mags sees it that way? She seems quite taken with you."

"And," Winston grinned, "you did used to be sweethearts remember?"

Matthew walked to the door and swung it open, "Yes." he said, "we were sweethearts. For about a week. When we were _seven years old, _Winston. As you well know."

Papa and Winston exchanged a look, and Papa followed him out into the grand hall. Winston smiled to himself.

Oh, really? Sweethearts, when they were seven? Funny how Cousin Isobel neglected that little detail when we were talking about this yesterday. Isobel Crawley, you little sneak.

Winston shook his head and finished his glass of brandy in two gulps. He stared at the empty glass and, lost in his own thoughts, chuckled to himself as he followed my father and Matthew out in to the corridor.

"A truly, truly capital bottom." I heard him mutter.

After that, I made my excuses and went upstairs. My headache practically exploded and I felt a dire need to spend some time in my own company. I spent a fair few minutes examining my own rear end in the full-length mirror before giving up on understanding men and retiring to bed.

But I slept soundly that night.

* * *

**13th October 1912**

**Reasons why I, Mary Crawley, love my sister Sybil, (an official list): **

1. She has SALVAGED my red dress. No more dog hair, no more dog smell, not so much as a flea. It's practically new.

2. She has given Edith a stern telling off in regards to trying to destroy said dress.

3. (And this is my favourite), I have just been told by Anna that whilst I was cowering behind the curtains in the library a couple of nights ago, Sybil was having a tete-a-tete with Miss Margaret Farley, (alias 'Mags), whereby my sister implied that Matthew was already engaged to someone else. To a _blonde._ Named _Isis._

Oh god, I actually cried tears of laughter. My sister is, quite simply, brilliant. I love her so very, very much.


	5. Chapter 5

**15th October 1912**

We had it from Cousin Isobel that Winston Farley and his sister were supposed to be going home today. And might I add, not a moment too soon. I haven't seen Matthew since that night they came to dine and I can honestly say I have no wish to. I'm still cross with him.

I've taken to riding a lot lately. Between the Pamuk incident and the matter of, well, 'The Great Matter', I've been feeling increasingly powerless. Sybil is right when she says it's not terribly fair, being a woman. Matthew can be a solicitor and go to university and converse with whoever he likes. Women like me are limited to dress-fittings and tea-parties. When I'm out with Diamond though, all of that just falls away. I can ride as fast as I like. I can leave the whole of Downton behind. Sometimes, as long as Lynch isn't with me, I can pretend I'm somebody else.

This morning, as I was making my way to the stables, I ran into Mrs Hughes as she was carrying the morning post through to the library for Papa. There was a letter for me, although I didn't recognise the handwriting. The letter said... well, why don't you see for yourself?

"_Dear Lady Mary Crawley, _

_I hope you will forgive me this impudence in writing to you, but my sister and I are to travel back to Manchester today and I am so very sorry to not have had the chance to meet you properly. _

_The fact of the matter is that your dear cousin, (and my own friend, the honourable Matthew Crawley), has been keeping me hostage in Crawley House and has forbidden me from talking to you. However, he neglected to tell me I could not write to you, (Matthew should know better. I am a solicitor, after all. We're good at finding loopholes). _

_Whatever the case, I had to speak to you before Mags and I caught the train. As you are reading this we are probably at the station or are just leaving it. It's a great pity, as both my sister and I have being dying of curiosity. Matthew is always talking about you, "Mary said this...", "Mary did that...", etcetera. You're one of the few friends he has made in Downton and he truly does think the world of you. Mags has been positively green with jealousy this entire trip. And if, in a moment of madness, Matthew might have thought it was a clever idea to flirt and preen with my sister over dinner, I think you should know it was not so much done out of affection for Mags, but, (I suspect), it was Matthew's way of trying to get you to stop ignoring him. It has been several days since you last spoke to him and he's confided in me that he suspects you are cross with him. In fact, it seems to be playing on his mind. What do you think of that? Are you cross with him? _

_Matthew has been my best friend my whole life. He is the very best friend anyone could ever hope for, if he were only given a chance. However, that being said, he's also a galloping idiot. But I know you won't hold that against him. _

_I had rather hoped to catch a glimpse of whatever has caught him in such a rage about you. But, as ever, Matthew is being selfish and is determined to keep you to himself. One day, Mary Crawley, I am determined to meet you properly. Please know that if you are ever in the area, you are most welcome to come and stay as a guest at my father's house in Stockport. Manchester, as a city, has much to recommend it. Especially me. _

_Your friend, affectionately._

_William Farley."_

I've read it so many times and I still don't know what to make of it. William Farley is a strange creature. Still, I'm glad the Farleys are gone. I was determined that Matthew and I were not going to continue in our peculiar little friendship after dinner the other night, but this letter has put me in rather a spin. I can't make a decision about Matthew just yet.

This morning, after reading his letter, I tucked Mr Farley's little note into the pocket of my riding habit and Diamond and I disappeared into the woods for a while. I pretended I was somebody else and it made me feel a little better.

* * *

**17th October 1912**

Sybil is UP TO SOMETHING. Outrage! Intrigue! What could this be?

Sybil had told me this morning that she was going to old Mrs Donoghue's house to check on her and the children, but then Edith told me this afternoon that Sybil wasn't at Mrs Donoghue's house at all. She saw her walking in Ripon with one of our housemaids, Gwen. _Walking with a housemaid? _

This is outrageous. Only one Crawley sister is allowed to have secrets in this house, and it certainly isn't Sybil. I'm determined to have it out with her.

Oh, and Matthew came to visit but I was conveniently out riding.

* * *

**18th October 1912**

Tea with Granny. Was there ever a more terrifying sentence in the english language?

Granny has got it into her head that Matthew and I should get married, so that I might be the Countess of Grantham one day. There was a time not so long ago that she was the only person in this family who was defending my rights and trying to break the entail, but now she's turned traitor. It doesn't matter that Matthew and I don't love each other, or that Matthew doesn't even want to inherit, or that selling your granddaughter into marriage is tantamount to slavery, so long as I become the_ Countess of Grantham_.

There's something I should tell you about Granny. When she gets an idea into her head, she's positively frightening. So naturally, sitting in her day room with Cousin Isobel and Mama was not really my idea of a fun Tuesday afternoon. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if Granny drugged my tea and I woke up in a wedding dress, being dragged down the aisle by my feet. It might sound like a silly notion to you, but this is _Granny _we're talking about, so I drank my tea in small sips, just in case.

"Isobel, dear," Granny said, "do tell us how Cousin Matthew is getting on. Is he enjoying his job and, uh, his _weekends?_" She choked a little on that last word. Granny will never quite get her head around the ideas of the middle-class.

Cousin Isobel was taken aback. And who could blame her? She has gone from being referred to as 'that woman' to 'Isobel, dear' in the space of a few short weeks. Of course, it's all part of Granny's marriage plans, but Cousin Isobel isn't to know that.

"Matthew is fine." she said, "But perhaps a little down in the mouth. I thought having his friends come to visit might make him feel more at home but I rather feel it's made matters worse. He is glum."

Well, good. I snorted into my teacup, which was rather unlike me. The entire room turned to stare at me.

"Sorry," I said, pretending to clear my throat, "my throat is dry."

"Oh my dear," said Cousin Isobel, "you're not coming down with something are you?"

"Me?" I said, "Oh no. I have an infallible constitution."

Cousin Isobel leaned forward and looked at me, shrewdly. Good god, another terrifying prospect. Isobel used to be a nurse and even to this day she is always trying to cure somebody of something. Poor Molesley usually bears the brunt of her nursing.

On this occasion, she seemed satisfied that I was healthy.

"Well," Isobel said, "I wish I could say the same for Matthew. He's caught rather a serious chill. He's not at all well. I tried to get him to stay in bed but he insists on going to work."

"Oh!" Granny said, with a faux-concern that seemed obvious, even to me, "No wonder he's depressed. Poor Cousin Matthew, he should be tucked up in bed. Mary, perhaps you could bring him some sou-."

"No, I couldn't possibly." I said, "I'm far too busy today."

"It doesn't have to be _today_." Granny said through gritted teeth.

"I'm busy." I said again, also through gritted teeth. I can't cope with seeing Matthew. Not yet.

Mama, who has often remarked that my Grandmother and I are too alike in many ways, managed to intervene with a banal remark about the wallpapers and very soon the conversation turned towards decorating and I let my mind wander. I thought about that day when Matthew helped me bake biscuits for Carson. I thought about Sybil and Gwen, and whatever secrets those two girls were trying to keep. I thought about Pamuk and Patrick.

It occurred to me that thus-far, every beau I've had has met an untimely end. That's a 100% mortality rate. Crumbs! It's a good job Matthew and I aren't getting married, or he'd be dead in a matter of minutes.

I wasn't able to ride Diamond today, because Granny kept us too long. As a result, I've felt restless all day. With all these thoughts about Matthew and Patrick and Pamuk floating around my head, I think I exhausted myself and fell asleep in the drawing room after dinner. I was only dosing really, I could still hear what everyone was talking about. I could still hear when Sybil and Edith said goodnight and went to bed, and I could still hear when Papa finished his anecdote about one of this goat-herding tenants and went to bed also. I knew I had to wake up properly, if only so I could make it up the stairs but god help me, I was so comfortable, and it had been such a long day.

Just when I was sure everyone had left me, I felt a stray lock of hair get tucked behind my ear and a pair of lips pressed themselves against my forehead. The smell of my mother's perfume.

"Goodnight, my little girl." said Mama's voice, "I love you, my darling."

Nothing could have been designed to wake me up more thoroughly. Mama had kissed me, and she had said she loved me. After everything that had happened with Pamuk, she still loved me. I don't think I have ever felt so relieved about something in my entire life.

After I was sure she had left the room, I sat up on the couch and started to cry.

* * *

**19th October 1912**

So, if you were to murder your sister, (and believe me, I've thought about it often enough), they would call it 'sororicide'? And if you were to murder your brother, they'd call it 'fratricide', am I correct?

So, what would they call it if you were to murder, say, a fourth cousin? Maybe I should ask Cousin Matthew. After all, he is a solicitor.

You might think I'm being harsh, but he's caused no end of mischief today, and the whole house has been frantic over him. It started like this:

I had been terrorising Sybil in the rose garden all afternoon, having previously made the decision that the best way to extract whatever secret she's hiding is to nag her incessantly until she either strangles me or confesses everything. Harassing younger sisters can be terribly fun, and I thoroughly recommend it. But I digress...

I was mid-harassment, when I saw Cousin Isobel and my father fly out into the garden at a speed that I didn't think people of their age were capable. Papa waved at Sybil and I frantically to come inside. Cousin Isobel was beside herself.

She's normally a very collected woman, Cousin Isobel. But by the time Sybil and I were close enough to hear what she was saying, Mama and Carson had joined their gathering, and it was obvious from Isobel's voice that she was very upset.

"... but then this afternoon, Mr Carver turned up on our doorstep, asking where he had got to. He said that Matthew didn't arrive for work this morning."

Mama lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Now Isobel, Matthew is a sensible man. I'm sure he's fine."

"But that's just it," Cousin Isobel said, "he wasn't fine. He's just been getting sicker and sicker, and he was so feverish. I gave him strict instructions not to go to work, but he was out of the door this morning before I even came down for breakfast! And now he's missing!"

At the prospect of losing (yet another) heir, Papa was ready to leap into action. Already a search party was in full-swing. The whole family, the servants – we were all being summoned to search the village and see if we couldn't track down the illusive Mr Crawley. I admit, I was worried too. It wasn't like Matthew to cause so much bother. Normally, the thought of causing anyone despair would mortify him. I heard Thomas remark that he was probably just sitting in a public house somewhere, and I nearly bit his head off. What if Matthew really was sick? Oh god, what if he was unconscious somewhere? What if he had been set upon by thieves?

I mean, not that I really care, but we were all rather concerned.

I had no idea where to begin looking or what had happened to him. We began to split off into groups of two or three and set off looking for him – it was half past four, and we had very few hours of daylight left to find him. Papa and Isobel were one team. Mama and Carson were another. Sybil, (who I expect was eager not to be grilled about her exploits with Gwen), went with Edith and Anna.

And as for me, I knew there was only one person in that house that had the slightest chance of helping me find Matthew, and that person was Isis. I swear, when it comes to Matthew, she's like a trained bloodhound. I grabbed her lead and off we set.

Isis, who seemed to be blissfully unaware of how frantic everybody was, seemed to think we were off for a jolly good walk. It didn't matter to her that I had never walked her in her life, or that I didn't have a clue where we were going, or even that at one point, as it was just starting to get dark, I was starting to lose my patience with her. She stopped to sniff every wall we passed and decided she wanted to bark at everything. Everything. If she saw a cat, she barked at it. If a leaf blew across our path, she barked at it. She was absolutely hopeless.

It was no good. Eventually, the sky was pitch black and the air was chilly, and I realised that the best bet was to head back up to the house and just pray that somebody else had found Matthew before us.

And then, the strangest thing happened. I took Isis home via some derelict cottages down by the south lodge. It was a good half a mile away from home, but I thought it would made sense to take her that way, as it was the one place I hadn't thought to look, and it seemed to make sense to go there. I regretted the decision almost immediately. There were no lights along the roads by the cottages, and the path was so dark I could hardly see where we were going.

Isis stopped in her tracks. I was not in the mood.

"Don't do this now, you stupid animal." I said, "Come on, we need to get home."

Isis' response to this was to start wagging her tail excitedly.

"God in heaven," I said, "if you start barking at something again I'll have Mrs Padmore bake you into a casserole. I mean it."

But she didn't just start barking, she started howling. She got so excitable that she started keening at the lead and I realised, belatedly, that there was only one person who got Isis this riled up.

_Matthew. _

"Where is he, girl?" I asked, but Isis had already anticipated this question. She began pulling me the direction of one of the cottages and, as I got close enough I could make a dark lump on the doorstep of one of the houses. Isis jumped on the lump with all the fervor of a teenage girl on her first crush. The lump groaned.

"Down girl." I hissed. The lump was Matthew and he looked terrible.

"Matthew," I said, "can you hear me? Are you alright?"

I felt his forehead and even in the cold night air, he was sweating profusely. He was so warm. I couldn't make his face out particularly well in the dark, but when he managed to talk he sounded absolutely miserable.

"Mary," he said, "I don't feel at all the thing. I think I might be coming down with something."

Well, wasn't that just the understatement of the century? I sat down next to him and tried to pull him into a seating position, which ended in him leaning against me awkwardly.

"Can you walk?" I said.

"No thank you." he mumbled in reply and I got the distinct impression he was falling asleep on me.

"Matthew Crawley, wake up this instant!" I shook him as hard as I could, which wasn't very hard at all. I hadn't noticed how, well, _firm_ his upper body was. "Can you get up and walk, if I let you lean on me? We're not far from the house."

But Matthew was already leaning on me. Rather heavily, in fact. He let his head drop onto my shoulder and seemed to murmur contentedly. Propriety be damned, Matthew Crawley was trying to get comfortable.

"No," I said, firmly, "wake up."

"Mary," he sniffled, "I feel rotten. Just give me a moment, please."

I hesitated, which was all he needed. He rested his head against my shoulder and started to doze. From such a close proximity, I could hear how laboured his breathing was. I remembered Isobel telling me he'd had a bad lung infection as a little boy. And he was so feverish. Crikey, how was I ever going to get both him and Isis back to the house? I tried to think of what to do and settled for rubbing his back, the way Carson used to rub mine when I was a little girl. He sighed against me. We couldn't stay like this – it was not at all proper and besides which, I needed to get Matthew out of the cold.

"This is nice." he said.

"It's not nice." I said, "This is the very opposite of nice. Matthew Crawley, we've been looking for you everywhere. What are you doing out here? Why didn't you stay tucked up in bed?"

He sighed again.

"You sound like Mother."

"Well, she was right. You're in no state to be out of the house. How did you even make it this far?"

I pulled back so I could look him in the face – his eyes were glassy and unfocused. He looked half-asleep, half-smiling.

"Wanted to see the cottages." he managed.

The cottages.

Of course.

Matthew had been working on the cottages, of that much I had been aware. That must have been why he went there this morning – he wanted to check on the progress of the cottages before he went to work. But of course, Matthew was sick as a dog, and as it turned out he couldn't even make it past the first cottage, let alone make it all the way to the solicitors firm where he worked. But as far as I could tell, the houses were already looking habitable and only needed a lick or two of paint in order to make them look homely.

I reached around Matthew's torso, fishing into his pockets for the keys to the cottages and, after faffing around in the dark for an indeterminable amount of time, I managed to open the front door to one of the cottages and maneuver Matthew inside. The house was very bare. There was an old bed upstairs that served as a place for Matthew to lie and I did try to build a fire in the fireplace, but frankly I'm not a kitchen maid, and building fires is just not my forte. Isis, perhaps sensing something was wrong, lay across Matthew's stomach and in a moment of uncharacteristic obedience, decided to keep her head down and behave like a normal dog.

I shook my head in amazement. "Where wonders never cease." I murmured to myself.

"What was that?" Matthew said, drowsily.

"Nothing, Matthew. How are you feeling?"

"Quite ill." he said, punctuating that remark with a violent sneeze.

I sat next to him on the bed, the light of the moon shining through the window was really the only light we had. I brushed the hair off his face and made soothing noises until I was sure he was asleep. As I tried to get up to leave, an arm snaked around my waist and Matthew said, "Are you leaving?"

"I'm going to get Papa," I said, "everyone's been looking for you. I think we ought to fetch Dr Clarkson too. You don't look at all well."

The arm tightened. "Couldn't you stay a little longer?"

I smiled, despite myself. "I'll be back before you know it. I'm leaving Isis here to guard you."

Poor Matthew. He could barely keep his eyes open.

"Hm." he said, which I think was his acquiescence. "But you'll come back, won't you?"

"Of course," I said, and I meant it, "Nurse Mary to the rescue."

I'm not sure why, but I patted his hand. I think I was trying to reassure him. Or maybe I was trying to reassure myself. I ran all the way home to find the entire search party reconvening at the house and everybody tearing their hair out over where Matthew could possibly be. It irked me slightly to realise that nobody had noticed I had also gone missing for a while, but I recovered sufficiently to tell Papa my story and soon enough the car was brought round and a party of people were dispatched to go and drive the blessed heir to the hospital.

The party consisted of Papa, Cousin Isobel, Thomas, (in case any heavy-lifting was needed), Granny, (in case any histrionics were needed) and the chauffeur Branson, (he's rather new and irish). I was most emphatically told I couldn't go with them. In fact, far from being grateful, Papa looked horrified that I was the one who found Matthew in the first place. I mean, I know I'm not the most maternal of women, but I rather thought I did a good job of nursing him considering the very limited circumstances. Or at least, that was the argument that I gave to Papa, even as everyone else was piling into the motor. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was not travelling with them to the cottages, and that if my nursing had anything to do with it, Matthew would be very lucky if he was still alive when they got there. I know he meant it as a joke, but _honestly. _

What do they call it when you murder your father? Patricide, isn't it?

* * *

**20th October 1912**

I am somewhat offended that my heroics last night have been completely overlooked, but Matthew is safe and settled into the hospital, so I suppose that's something. I would never admit this to anyone, but I've been up half the night worrying about him. Stupid, stupid Matthew.

Papa says Matthew is doing well, but he won't give specifics. It's all very annoying. I'm trying to devise a way to look in on him at the hospital, without Papa or Granny finding out. Especially Granny. If she found out I was planning to visit Matthew of my own volition, she'd have an announcement in the newspaper before I got back to the house.

Anyway, it's not like I'm visiting him properly. I'll just pop my head in and make sure he's not too bad. As soon as I'm satisfied that he's on the mend, I'll go. Besides, I have errands to run in the village.

* * *

**20th October 1912 continued...**

Well, my covert mission to visit Matthew in the hospital went as well as can be expected. I forget, sometimes, that my family don't pay that much attention to my comings and goings. I could probably visit him naked, and no one would notice.

No, not true. Granny would notice. Granny notices everything.

Anyway, I took a walk to the village and briefly stopped by the hospital to see how Matthew was getting on. I must say, he was looking a little better than last night but he was still quite feverish and seemed to be sleeping it off. It seemed a little risqué, seeing him lying there in his pyjamas. His cheeks were flushed, but he was no longer sweating and he certainly looked a lot healthier than he did last night. In point of fact, he actually looked quite... handsome? I mean, I'll deny that to my grave if anyone ever asks me, but then and there – lying in that hospital bed – Matthew Crawley looked actually rather handsome. Cherubic, even. I watched him sleep for a while but he barely even stirred.

"Cousin Mary?"

I made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a bark. Cousin Isobel had crept up behind me.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me." I said, in a voice that probably sounded scared.

"Have you come to check on Matthew?"

I didn't want to tell her the truth. I didn't want to give anyone an excuse to start pushing the 'marriage' business again, so I lied and said "Oh, Mama sent me to check on him. He seems to be doing alright, don't you think?"

"Yes," Isobel said, "he seems to be out of the woods." There was a moment of silence, as we both stared at the sleeping man in front of us. In fact, I seemed to be having trouble not staring at him.

"Actually," Isobel said, "I wanted to thank you for helping him."

"Oh," I said, "it was nothing."

"It wasn't nothing." Isobel took a seat next to her son's bed, and gestured to another empty seat on the opposite side. I held on to the chair, but I wouldn't sit. "Matthew was asking for you when we got there. He said you'd promised to come back."

"I did." I said, "But in my defence, I never specified _when._"

Isobel rolled her eyes, but it wasn't unkindly.

"It's alright, I know your father wouldn't let you come with us. Matthew was disappointed though." There was another pause, before she added, "Matthew said you rubbed his back?"

Oh. Oh dear. Matthew and his big mouth. If word gets back to Granny, she'll be ecstatic.

"Matthew said that?"

"Yes, he did."

"Well..." I rolled the word around on my tongue, "he _was_ delirious. Maybe he imagined it?"

One look at Isobel told me she didn't believe me. I've always been a terrible liar. I wanted to stay and sit with Matthew a little longer, just to make sure he was definitely, definitely alright... but I couldn't, not with Isobel watching my every move. I made my excuses and went to leave.

"I'll let him know you came to see him." I heard Isobel say, as I left the room. I think she said something else, but I didn't stick around to hear it.

I can always check on him tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Author's Note:** Hi again! I don't know about you, but I've been so bummed outfollowing the end of Series 3 that I had to write something a little lighthearted to try and lift my spirits. Just to let you know, (a couple of people have asked me this), this story might seem a little AU but I am going to try to mix in some canon events along the way. The next canonical thing to happen is going to happen around the Flower Show, but I can't really work that in until the Spring months. _

_Until then, Matthew is about to incite Mary's competitive streak. I don't need to tell you that this is a bad idea on Matthew's part..._

* * *

**21st October 1912**

I went to visit Matthew at the hospital again today. It took all my skills of deception and ingenuity – I waited until around 11am, when I knew that Cousin Isobel was due to visit Mama and have tea and then I crept out of the servant's entrance and bribed Branson heavily to not tell anyone where he was taking me. He looked at me like I was a little mad, but then I suppose Branson is new. He's not used to how we do things here. He'll have to get used to being bribed if he wants to stay in this job.

Anyway, I thought with Isobel being out of the way I could check on Cousin Matthew and make sure he was on the mend. I had even anticipated maybe sitting at his bedside and waiting till he woke up, that way the man himself could tell me how he was feeling, and I could make a few obligatory soothing noises that will hopefully make him feel better whilst at the same time ease my conscience so that I'm not lying awake half the night worrying about him. But, as per usual, the joke was on me. Matthew was already awake, sitting up in bed and reading through a collection of TS Eliot poems. Up until that point I had no idea he read TS Eliot, but now that I come to think about it, of course he reads TS Eliot. Matthew is exactly the sort of person who I would expect to read TS Eliot. Bloody Matthew.

He looked up from his book and saw me standing in the doorway, and his whole face lit up. I don't think anybody has ever smiled like that for me before and, come to think of it, I don't think anyone has ever been so happy to see me. But I suppose, if you're trapped in a hospital with only your mother to visit you, you're bound to be ecstatic if you get a new visitor, so I probably shouldn't read too much in to the situation. I walked over to one of the chairs by his bed and it surprised me to find that I was smiling too. I had to compose my face into a more serious-looking expression before I took a seat next to him.

"How are you feeling?" I asked politely, "Not too ill, I hope?"

"No," he said cheerfully, "I feel miles better, actually. I can't begin to thank you for your help the other night. I'm so horribly embarrassed."

He didn't look embarrassed. If anything, he looked delighted. I felt a heat crawl up my neck that told me my cheeks were about to turn very pink, which is something I absolutely detest. Mary Crawley quite simply _does not blush._ I tried to focus on something outside the window – there was a tree out there that was very eye-catching but nothing sufficiently distracting to stop me from blushing.

"Don't forget Isis." I said, "Isis was the real hero."

"No, you're the hero. Well, heroine, I suppose. Although I'm sure Isis was an enormous help."

When you have a complexion as pale as mine, blushing is not adorable. Frankly, it's humiliating. I looked at Matthew who just seemed so pleased to see me, and my cheeks must have been an alarming shade of red, and the worst thing was I couldn't quite figure out why I was reacting so strangely. It was only Matthew, for god's sake. I could only suppose it was because I was so over-tired, and that I had been incredibly worried about him, that perhaps it was all just catching up with me. Or maybe I was coming down with something. Maybe I had caught whatever Matthew had got.

I picked an imaginary piece of lint off Matthew's blanket and said, "Well then, just call me Perseus."

Matthew grimaced, "But wouldn't that make me the princess? I'm not sure I like the idea of being the princess. Or being chained naked to a rock, now that I happen to think about it."

I laughed, "And who would Isis be?"

"The Sea Monster, of course. Who else?"

"That's more or less accurate. She's tried to ravage you on more than one occasion."

"Yes," said Matthew, a little more seriously than I would have liked, "but you always save me, don't you? I can always count on you."

There was a moment of silence. I picked at more imaginary lint until I could think of something to change the subject to. After that, we talked easily for a while, Matthew told me about the book he was reading and I persuaded him to read a couple of poems, before interrupting him repeatedly and mocking his 'reading voice' until I thought he was going to wing the book at me. We discussed all the news from Downton, (mainly it was all about Sybil and whatever secret she is hiding with Gwen. Matthew is as intrigued as I am!) It was a long while before I thought to check on the time and realised I should really have left already if I wanted to avoid bumping into Cousin Isobel on my way back.

I stood up from the chair and straightened my coat.

"You're going already?" Matthew said, before changing his sentence to a slightly less-needy, "Of course you are, you must have plenty to do."

"I really only came to make sure you were still in one piece, and you are. I don't want to outstay my welcome." And thinking out outstaying welcomes, my thoughts flew back to William Farley and his younger sister, and I said to Matthew. "How did your guests get off the other day? They caught the train back to Manchester, I believe? Did they arrive home safely?"

"Winston and Mags?" Matthew said, "Yes, they got home safely. Winston told me to say goodbye to you, actually. He was sorry he didn't get to meet you properly."

I bit my tongue. Winston had already said as much in the letter he sent me, but there was no reason Matthew needed to know that.

"Actually I have a confession." said Matthew, "And I hope you won't be too cross. Winston had been dying to meet you and, well... I did take great pains to keep him away from you. I mean, not that William is a bad person but he is rather a flirt and he's famous for trying to stir trouble. I didn't want him upsetting you, so I... uh..."

"Kept him hostage in Crawley House?" I offered, helpfully.

"Yes." said Matthew, his eyes narrowing, "that's exactly what William called it. In fact, that was his exact turn of phrase. How did you know?"

I'm such a terrible liar, so I didn't say anything. I stared out the window. There was that tree again.

Matthew sat up straighter.

"Mary," he said, urgently, "How did you know?"

I cleared my throat.

"He may have written me a small note before he left to go to Manchester."

"A note?" Matthew said, blankly.

"Well, more of a letter. But a small letter."

"Saying what?"

"Nothing exciting. Only goodbye."

There was a very tense silence. Matthew twisted the bedsheets in his hands.

"Can I read it?"

This irritated me more than it should have. The product, I think, of being raised with two nagging younger sisters who would never let me keep anything private.

"No," I snapped, "it's my letter. It was addressed to me."

"Of course." Matthew agreed quickly, "I didn't mean to pry. It's only, Winston does like to cause trouble..."

I had a thousand retorts on the tip of my tongue. I could have told him that it was his own fault for not choosing his friends more carefully. I could have told him that if he had introduced me and Winston properly, Winston wouldn't have had to write a surreptitious letter. I could have told him that it served him right for ignoring me for days on end.

Instead, I squeezed his hand.

"Oh Matthew," I said, "we both know you're quite capable of causing your own trouble."

His eyes flashed with amusement.

"Look who's talking."

I went home feeling quite happy, knowing that Matthew was going to be discharged later that day and, even better, that he was torturing himself over the contents of Winston Farley's letter. I couldn't have planned it better myself.

* * *

**23rd October 1912**

One of the few pleasures I get in life is torturing my younger siblings. Really, it's just tops. Poor Matthew doesn't know what he's missing, being an only child.

I have had a long overdue chat with Sybil over her excursions with Gwen, and I have finally had the truth out of her. What did I tell you? All I had to do was nag her incessantly and eventually it wore her down. Anyway, as it turns out Sybil is on a mission to find Gwen another job. Can you believe it? She's trying to find one of _our_ housemaids other employment. I wouldn't mind if Gwen was useless or something, but she's actually quite a capable young woman and finding good staff is so hard these days.

"Do the words 'shooting yourself in the foot' mean anything to you?" I said to Sybil over breakfast.

Sybil rolled her eyes at me as she buttered a piece of toast.

"Oh, for god's sake Mary. You have to admire Gwen, really. She's worked so hard to improve herself and she's had no encouragement from anyone until now. I think it's great that women can advance themselves these days."

"You're not going to bang on about Women's Rights again, are you?"

Nothing gets Sybil angrier than when I play the 'Women's Rights' card. I mean, of course I believe women should have equal opportunities to men. If I had the same rights as a man, I would be inheriting Downton and no one would be trying to force me to marry Matthew Crawley. I am a staunch believer in Women's Rights. It's just that when I see the way the vein throbs in Sybil's forehead when I pretend to be blasé about politics, well, I just can't help myself. It's hysterical.

And I don't know about admiring Gwen, but I certainly admire my sister. She's always thinking of other people. Always trying to help. She's been like that ever since she was a little girl. I wish I could be noble, like Sybil.

But I'm not. I'll always love torturing my sisters. Really, there are so few pleasures in life.

* * *

**29th October 1912 **

Please see my previous diary entries in regards to torturing my sisters. Because right now, I would _love _to inflict a great deal of pain on one of my darling siblings.

Edith has been going through my things again. Not in my bedroom, which is where she normally strikes, but in my coat pockets and even in my bag.

It started yesterday - Edith, Mama and I paid a visit to Cousin Isobel and as per usual, Molesley took my coat off me and hanged it up in the hallway, which is now the standard procedure at Crawley House. After some polite conversation and a cup or two of tea, Edith excused herself 'to visit the ladies room' but didn't come back for some time. Later on I discovered a letter that I had received from Aunt Rosamund had gone missing out of my coat pocket. I mean, the letter itself was full of trite London gossip and I can't imagine what she wants with it, but it's the fact that she won't admit to the theft that has infuriated me. On a couple of occasions I have also found my bag moved, or the contents 'disturbed', shall we say. A lady's handbag is her own private kingdom. Under no circumstances should ANYONE dare to venture into another lady's bag.

I am, (to coin a phrase of Carson's), spitting feathers. I'll find out what Edith is playing at or I'll kill us all in the attempt.

Matthew is still sniffling, but he's feeling a lot better. He's even started going back to work, much to his mother's chagrin. I have given him strict instructions to take it easy, as the next time Isis and I see him lying unconscious somewhere, we're just going to leave him for dead.

* * *

**30th October 1912**

As painful as it is for me to say this, I think I owe Edith an apology. It wasn't her that was going through my things. It was somebody else. In fact, it was the last person I would ever have expected.

I caught Matthew Crawley red-handed as he was pilfering through one of Sybil's handbags that she had left in the drawing room. Suddenly, everything started to make sense.

"You do know that bag belongs to Sybil?" I said, from the doorway. Matthew flinched. He looked at me with something akin to horror and his mouth open and closed uselessly, although I'm sure he was trying to will some words to come out.

"Matthew," I said sweetly, "why, pray tell, are you going through my sister's things?"

Matthew seemed to shake himself out of his stupor.

"I thought it was yours." he said, as if he thought that was a viable excuse. Realising what he'd said, he followed it with, "I didn't mean it like that. I've never done this before. I was just..."

"Looking for William Farley's letter?" I asked.

He nodded, dumbly.

The moment I saw him route through that bag, it all clicked into place. Matthew had been desperate to find out what was in that letter and I wouldn't tell him. Obviously, Matthew Crawley has a guilty little secret that Farley is privy to and he's terrified about whatever has been written in that letter. Now, seeing him standing in the drawing room, looking red and flustered and humiliated, I should have been angry. I should have been furious. I should, in Carson's phrase, have been 'spitting feathers'.

Instead, I laughed. I couldn't help it. It just bubbled out of me, and once I started I just couldn't seem to stop. I had to cling to the back of the door for support. Matthew looked at me like I'd lost my mind which, to be fair, I probably had.

"This..." I wheezed, "... this is why you stole Aunt Rosamund's letter? Because you..." I gulped for breath, "...you thought it might have been from _him?"_

Matthew put down the bag, and half-smiled. He looked bemused.

"I didn't recognise the handwriting on it," he said, "but I had to be sure."

"For god's sake Matthew!" I howled, and collapsed into giggles. It was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. Even Matthew started to chuckle. "What could be so important about that letter that you had to sneak through my things? That's not like you!"

"I know." he winced, "and I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. It was a cowardly thing to do. I don't do this sort of thing normally."

"Oh Matthew!" I sighed, composing myself. "You are quite ridiculous, sometimes."

He looked suspicious.

"You're not angry?"

"Angry? Matthew, if this whole scenario wasn't so idiotic I would be absolutely livid!"

By the time I had straightened up and composed myself, I was shocked to see that Matthew had made his way across the room and was standing right in front of me. He was still a little flushed from being caught but at least he was smiling, and his eyes were alive with mischief.

"Idiotic?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, suddenly feeling very serious, "you're being idiotic."

"Am I, now?" he said, still smiling. "Why is that? Because you've destroyed the letter?"

"No," I said, "because Downton Abbey is the biggest property in any direction for over two hundred miles. The letter may well be hidden in this building somewhere, but you'd never be able to find it."

Matthew stopped smiling and started grinning.

"So you _do _still have it?"

I saw the challenge in his eyes. Matthew Crawley wanted that letter, so very, very badly. It seemed ridiculous considering there really wasn't anything exciting written in it. I couldn't see why Matthew was getting so worked up about it, frankly. Still, life in Downton is so very boring... and I do love a good challenge.

"So what if I do still have the letter?" I said, "You'll never find it. It's very well hidden."

"We'll see." was all he said.

"Well," I gave him my most superior look, "you are very welcome to try."

If there's anything in this world that's more fun than torturing my sisters, it's torturing Matthew. He can search my bags. He can search my room if he likes. That letter is so well hidden, even an expert like Edith wouldn't be able to find it. I told Matthew this and he didn't even look slightly perturbed. He really doesn't know what he's letting himself in for.

So, with a hearty handshake and a quick wager, (I have to pay Matthew five pounds if he finds the letter. He has to pay me five pounds when he gives up looking for it), I left him to search the drawing room. Considering how obvious it is that he's going to lose, Matthew really is being a sport about this.

I love having an adversary.

As I was leaving, Matthew said, "I don't give up, Mary. If it takes me twenty years to find that letter, then it takes me twenty years. I'll keep looking."

The game is on.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Author's Note:**It's Sunday, and you know what that means! Another chapter, and this time it's a big 'un._ _I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

**1st November 1912**

Oh, for god's sake.

This morning I woke up at the usual time, bathed, dressed and went downstairs for breakfast only to be told by Papa that Matthew was already here. In fact, Matthew had turned up on our doorstep at six o'clock in the morning, on the pretense of having 'estate business' to attend to.

I bypassed the breakfast table and headed straight for the tureen of scrambled eggs. I spooned a generous helping and took my usual seat next to Edith, who eyed my plate with disgust.

"Estate business?" I asked. "What sort of 'estate business'?" And furthermore, I thought, doesn't he have a job to go to? Shouldn't he be out soliciting or whatnot?

Papa shrugged. "I have no idea what business he's talking about. But I'm glad he's taking a keen interest."

I had a feeling I knew what business Matthew was talking about. He was looking for Mr Farley's letter. And seeing as the letter was hidden somewhere on the estate, I couldn't really accuse Matthew of lying when he said he was attending to 'estate business'. Still, the misty-eyed look Papa got in his eyes whenever he talked about Matthew was almost enough to put me off my eggs. Yes, thank you Papa, I know you finally have the son you've always wanted. There's no need to rub it in my face.

Papa informed me Matthew was currently in the library, searching through his desk for something. I picked up a piece of dry toast, and used it to hide my smirk. Let him search the library if he wants to. Needless to say, if I was going to hide a letter from a gentleman-friend, I certainly wouldn't hide it amongst my father's things. Really, Matthew. Whatever the case, his search was cut short anyway, because he had a will-signing in Ripon at twelve o'clock and he had to leave.

And call me paranoid, but I could have sworn Edith was scrutinising me at the breakfast table. I wanted to ask her what she was staring at, but I didn't.

* * *

**2nd November 1912**

I spent the morning out with Diamond, and when I came home I was greeted by Carson, who was anxious to tell me that 'Mr Crawley' had been asking him questions about where I might keep my private papers. Despite his best efforts, Carson doesn't really care for Matthew. I don't think he really understands or cares why he's here.

"He said he was doing some conveyancing work for you, milady. But he was quite unspecific as to the nature of the work. I informed him that I couldn't be of any help."

"Thank you, Carson." I said, "You did the right thing." And then, after some thought, I added, "If Mr Crawley asks you again, feel free to lie to him. Maybe tell him my papers are kept in the kitchen or something."

"The kitchen, milady?"

"Yes, Carson. Thank you."

Carson accepted all this without so much as a raised eyebrow. That's the brilliant thing about Carson. He never asks questions. And whilst we're on the subject, that was a very stupid move by Matthew. Carson is obviously on my team. I mean, I'm sure Carson will warm to Matthew eventually, but it won't be any time in the foreseeable future.

He's on my team, Matthew. MINE.

* * *

**3rd November 1912**

I spent today helping Sybil compose a reference letter for Gwen, that servant who's trying to land another job. I have absolutely no idea why I'm helping Sybil. The whole idea is ridiculous. I must love my sister very, very much.

We sat in Sybil's room for privacy, and it seemed like we were pouring over sheets of paper for hours. Eventually we got a draft that Sybil was happy with and Anna joined us shortly afterwards with a tray of tea. We asked Anna to read through the letter for her honest opinion and then Sybil decided to detain her further by asking her to fix her hair. Poor Anna, we're always detaining her. No wonder she can never get anything done.

I folded the letter up and sealed it in an envelope, half-heartedly watching my sister as her hair was dressed.

"I still don't know why I'm helping you, you know." I said, "I was against this from the start."

"No you weren't." Sybil said, "You like Gwen and you don't want to see her unhappy."

I rolled my eyes, "I couldn't give a fig about Gwen. If I had my way, it would be indentured servitude for everyone in Downton. Gwen would be chained in the attics. There'd be none of this 'secretary' lark."

Anna laughed, nearly stabbing Sybil in the head with a hair pin.

"Mary!" Sybil said, "I know you better than that. You've got a bigger heart than you're willing to let on. Isn't that right, Anna?"

Fixing an errant strand into place, Anna nodded. "A much bigger heart, milady. Lady Mary just likes to hide it, that's all."

I thought they were giving me too much credit, but if they were going to assume I was a nicer person than I actually was, I wasn't going to argue. Instead I changed the subject by turning to Anna and saying, "How is your Mr Bates today?"

She blushed and said, "He is not _my _Mr Bates, milady."

I could see Sybil watching Anna. She studied her in the reflection of her dressing mirror. Anna's cheeks had turned pink and although Anna constantly denies any romantic interest in Mr Bates, neither Sybil or I believe her. If it had been Sybil or Edith I had been interrogating, I might have tried to tease the secret out of her. But it wasn't, it was Anna, and Anna has been nothing but sweet to me since the day she joined this house so I decided to let it go. So, I don't know, maybe I am nice after all.

"Actually, Mary." Sybil said, "I was meaning to talk to you about something. Do you have any idea about what's going on with Cousin Matthew?"

I was suddenly very fascinated with a hairbrush on Sybil's dressing table. I picked it up, put it down, and then picked it up again.

"How do you mean?" I said.

"Well, he's acting very strange, don't you think? He's here nearly every day now. Just before he leaves for work, he'll turn up here and start going from room to room. And, Mary," she leaned in conspiratorially, "I think he's looking for something."

"Looking for something?"

"Yes. I swear, yesterday I caught him going through Mama's desk drawers. I'm not making this up. Am I, Anna?"

"No," Anna said, "yesterday Mrs Patmore had to kick him out of the kitchen. He said he was looking for papers."

"See!" Sybil said, triumphantly, "Do you know what he's looking for, Mary?"

Toying with the bristles on the brush, I felt how soft they were against my palm. I was trying, and failing, not to look too guilty in front of Anna. I thought to myself, I could just tell them both. Sybil would never betray a secret and Anna, well, after the Pamuk Incident I think I could safely trust Anna with just about anything.

I could tell them about the bet I had with Matthew and I know they'd find it funny and they'd probably even help me. But, strangely, I found I liked having this secret with Matthew. Our little wager.

Instead, I said, "What makes you think I'd know what he was up to?"

Sybil huffed impatiently, "Because you know him better than I do."

"I-..." I was going to argue this point, but found I couldn't. Maybe I did know him better than Sybil. The thought pleased me.

"Well," she added, "both you and Edith do, really. But Edith wouldn't tell me either."

I froze. _Edith?_

"You asked Edith?" I said, "Why would you go to Edith?" Or rather, why did she go to Edith _first? _Does she think that Edith knows Matthew better than I do?

"Because Edith was helping him look."

I suddenly felt very, very ill.

"She was _what?!_"

"It's true, milady." Anna added, "She was with him in the kitchen as well."

"It seems that whatever Cousin Matthew is up to, he felt like he could talk to Edith about it. But when _I _asked him," Sybil said, "he told me I wouldn't like it. He said he would only enlist Edith's help because if he tried to talk to me about it, I would lecture him." Sybil looked worried, "So you see, now I _have _to know. What is he up to?"

Good god. Edith and Matthew, what an unholy alliance. I don't know why this felt so much like a betrayal, but it did. I had to remind myself it was just a stupid wager over an even stupider letter. It was just a game. It didn't matter.

But still, he picked _Edith._ I mean, obviously she was the smart choice. He knew he couldn't ask Sybil because Sybil would never have helped him. Not when his adversary was her own sister. Edith, on the other hand, is an renowned expert in sneaking into my bedroom and going through my things, and besides which she would quite happily chop me up and sell my body parts to a medical school if she thought she could get away with it.

That fact, coupled with Matthew's indefatigable determination to get that letter, means that Edith and Matthew are a match made in... well, somewhere.

**This started out as:**

Mary Crawley** _Versus _**Matthew Crawley

**Now it has become: **

Mary Crawley** _Versus _**Matthew Crawley, (and also Edith Crawley)

Well, if that's the way he wants to play it, then fine. He can have Edith on his team.

So Edith, if you're reading this, (and I know you are), it doesn't make a blind bit of difference to me. You and Matthew can search high and low and you'll never find that letter. And if you want to play dirty then that's fine too.

I told Sybil and Anna the whole thing. I told them what was in the letter, (not very exciting), that Matthew had been acting so paranoid about it and then I explained the wager. Sybil was amused but, predictably, thought I should just surrender the letter to him outright. I vetoed that idea.

"Darling," I said, "You're missing the point of the wager."

"But if it's bothering him that much, couldn't you just tell him?" Sybil hates the idea of anyone suffering.

"I could." I said, "And one day, maybe I will. But not yet. He has to learn his lesson."

She arched an eyebrow. "And what is his lesson, exactly?"

I couldn't think of a response, so I just said "Shut up, Sybil." and left it at that.

"Well, of course I'll help you milady, if that's what you want." said Anna, dubiously. "Where is the letter, now?"

Up until that point I had been keeping the letter in my diary, and the diary had been hidden under the floorboards beneath my bed. Given that I suspect Edith knows where my diary is kept and likes to read it's contents every so often, (you cow, Edith), I agreed the best idea was to surrender the letter to Anna, who said she would hide it in 'the safest place in the world'. When she told me where she was hiding it, I thought it was a stroke of genius. But for obvious reasons, I can't tell you where the hiding place is, because I can't risk Edith finding it. You'll just have to trust me when I tell you that Anna is a criminal mastermind.

"Well," said Sybil, "I think you're very foolish and I won't help you. But I won't tell Matthew either. Your secrets are always safe with me."

"I know they are." I said, and kissed her. Because secretly, I do love my sister. Even if she is a wet blanket.

**This started out as:**

Mary Crawley** _Versus_ **Matthew Crawley

**Now it has become: **

Mary Crawley, (and also Anna Smith) **_Versus _**Matthew Crawley, (and also Edith Crawley)

* * *

**5th November 1912**

Matthew joined us for breakfast. It was a quiet affair, with Papa rattling on about politics and this and that, and Matthew staring me down from across the table in a silent battle of wills. I happily shovelled muesli into my mouth and tried not to look like I was gloating.

We didn't say anything. We didn't have to. Edith's furious stare told me that she'd checked the contents of my diary and still hadn't found the letter, and Matthew's smug look told me that he wasn't even slightly put off by that fact. In his mind, I think, it's only a matter of time until he finds it. Well, we'll see about that. You don't cross a Crawley.

I ate my muesli as Matthew and I took turns smirking at each other across the table. He'd cock an eyebrow, I'd shrug my shoulders, Edith would sit there and quietly stew. Papa continued talking, oblivious.

* * *

**7th November 1912**

Sybil woke me up at half past seven this morning, banging on my bedroom door. The fire wasn't lit. Anna was nowhere to be seen. I sprung out of bed and flung open the door before I was even properly awake.

"For heaven's sake." I said, tying a dressing gown around myself hastily, "Darling, what's wrong? What happened?"

I don't think many people have ever seen Sybil when she's angry. It's like a solar eclipse. It's so rare, but when it does happen it's completely and utterly terrifying. There's nothing in this world like it.

"That wager with Matthew?" she said, "Is it still on?"

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I was sure I must have looked a fright.

"What?"

"The wager. With Matthew. About the letter. _Is it still on?"_

"Of course it is." I said. "Although there haven't been any new developments lately."

"I want in." she growled.

Well, that was a turn up for the books. I was about to tease her but thought better of it. She looked absolutely murderous_. _I didn't find out until later that in his zeal to track down the missing letter, Matthew had inadvertently confiscated and opened a letter addressed to Sybil. The letter, it turns out, was from a family friend that Sybil used to be quite sweet on when she was younger. Matthew admitted his mistake to her right away and apologised profusely, but it didn't stop Sybil from hitting the roof. He assured me later that it was a simple mistake, ("The handwriting on the envelope was appalling. I thought it said 'M Crawley'. I thought for sure it was addressed to _you, _Mary." Idiot.)

"It's not enough for him to lose," Sybil said, "I want to humiliate him."

"Very good." I agreed, and left it at that.

So...

**Now it has become: **

Mary Crawley, (and also Anna Smith and the infuriated Sybil Crawley) **_Versus _**Matthew Crawley, (and also Edith Crawley)

I almost feel sorry for them.

* * *

**6****th**** November 1912**

Papa is getting suspicious. Edith and Matthew have been acting so strange lately that he's almost certain they're up to something. And furthermore, this morning Cousin Isobel wondered to the room at large whether or not Edith and Matthew were having _a love affair._ The whole conversation was quite annoying. Thank god for Granny, who very quickly waded in and put a stop to any idea that a match could be made between the two of them.

"Not that I would object to having Matthew Crawley as a potential grandson," she said, "but he is most certainly not interested in Edith. I guarantee you that."

When it comes to Granny, Cousin Isobel is always very quick to take offence.

"Oh? And I suppose you think you know my own son better than I do?"

"Really, Isobel. I love Edith as much as the next person but surely you must see there's no spark between them. No, his interests lie..." there was an ominous pause as she stared at me pointedly, "_...elsewhere."_

I rolled my eyes. Granny is not known for her subtlety. I can see now she's still hell-bent on marrying me off to Matthew at the soonest opportunity. Isobel looked disapproving but did not argue with her.

The matter of Matthew was discussed for a good hour and all the while Sybil and I remained quiet. Something about the whole conversation irritated me but if Papa and Isobel want to believe that Edith and Matthew are having an affair, let them.

* * *

**8th November 1912**

It was raining today and there was a certain chill in the air. You'd think it would put me off riding Diamond, but it didn't.

I had a glorious ride. Lately, I've been pushing Diamond to go faster and faster and do you know, I rather think she's as thrilled as I am. We're similar spirits, Diamond and I. We don't much like being tamed.

I made it home just in time to join the family for luncheon, and I found that – yet again – the Crawleys had joined us to dine. It was exactly what I didn't need, for Matthew to see me all red-faced and sweating and splattered with mud. Matthew, of course, was impeccably dressed in a finely taylored suit with a light blue tie which I suppose was chosen to bring out the colour in his eyes. He was very nicely dressed, which I would assume is enough to make most women go weak at the knees but fortunately I'm not the weak-kneed type. I took off my riding hat and by Mama's horrified facial expression I gather my hair must have looked an absolute mess. Matthew wouldn't stop staring.

"Alright," I said, "get it over with."

"What?" he said, swallowing hard.

"The jokes. I look like a wild beast, don't I?"

I collapsed on to a chair and practically inhaled a finger sandwich. I don't know why but horse-riding always makes me ravenous. So much for being ladylike, I suppose.

"No." Matthew said, quietly, "Actually, you look marvellous."

I found I didn't have anything to say to that, so I didn't.

Twenty minutes of polite conversation later and Carson came to me with an envelope balanced on a silver tray, and informed me that I had received a letter in the second post. I recognised the handwriting straight away. From the look on Matthew's face, I gather he recognised the handwriting too.

"_Dearest Lady Mary Crawley,_

_If you are unaware of the situation in general, let me bring you up to speed. _

_I have received a letter from my dear friend, (and your cousin), Matthew Crawley. Matthew appears to be most distressed that I wrote a letter to you and is very anxious to discover the contents of aforementioned letter. Of course, I told him I couldn't possibly be expected to remember the contents, but it only seemed to make him more angry. He wants to know what secrets I've been telling you._

_He was furious with me for writing to you in the first place. So naturally I thought I would write you a letter to apologise for writing you a letter, in order to make amends. _

_Affectionately, your new best friend,_

_Mr W Farley_

_PS – If you really want to terrify Matthew, ask him about the donkey ride he got in Blackpool when he was fourteen. He'll go mad."_

It was only a short letter. Before I had even finished reading it, Matthew had lunged across the table and snatched it out of my hands, to the horror and protest of everyone at the table bar myself. I watched as he read the letter and I watched as its contents sank in.

"Oh, that absolute-..." Matthew bit his tongue.

"Donkey rides, Matthew?" I said.

Matthew's knuckles were white as he gripped the paper and I thought for a moment he was going to tear it up, before he remembered his manners and passed it back to me.

"That was just Classic Winston. He did that just to torture me."

Papa, who had been drinking tea before Matthew had lunged across the table and now seemed to be wearing it instead, dabbed at his shirt with a napkin and said, "Can I ask what _the devil_ is going on?"

Mama tutted, "Language, dear."

"I know Cora, but _my shirt."_

Matthew cleared his throat.

"I am sorry about that. But, well, the fact is..."

I glared at him. I'm under no illusion that I have psychic powers, but I thought that Matthew was a reasonably intelligent man and surely he would be able to read my facial expression. _Don't you dare tell them, _I thought. But asking Matthew not to be honest is like asking a dog not to bark. He told them everything.

Well, maybe not quite everything. He left out a few salient details in the vain hope that we wouldn't be scolded like schoolchildren. He just mentioned that Winston had written me a note and that I said the only way he would only be allowed to read the aforementioned note is if he could find where I'd hidden it. He glossed over the bit about there being a wager. He also left out Edith, so she wouldn't get in trouble and he didn't mention Sybil or Anna either, but then I suspect he didn't know they were helping me.

"So you see, it was a kind of game really. I'm sorry if it got out of hand."

Matthew does 'contrite' very well. Papa looked back and forth between Matthew and I like he was watching a particularly confusing game of tennis. A silence fell around the table and eventually it was Isobel who decided to break it.

"It's not like you to be so childish Matthew."

He looked at the table. "I know."

"And you, Mary!" Papa joined in, "We hardly know this man! Why are you writing to him?!"

I threw my hands up in defense.

"I haven't written to him! Mr Farley has written to me. And, if you must know, it was a very innocent letter."

Across the table I saw Matthew's eyes flash. We both knew what was coming, and I didn't like it. I was going to lose the wager.

"Where is the letter now?" Papa said.

I bit my lip.

"_Mary."_

I sighed. "It's in Mrs Hughes' undergarments drawer." Over Papa's shoulder, I saw Carson's eyes nearly pop out of his skull. It had been Anna's idea, but I couldn't very well get her into trouble after all she's done for me. So instead, I just shrugged and said "It's the safest place I know."

Edith gasped, partly scandalised and partly, (I think), with admiration. "That letter would never have been found."

"I know." I said, resignedly. I really had been an excellent hiding place. Matthew would never have found it.

"That letter would have been discovered by archaeologists," Edith continued, "years down the line..."

Mama patted her shoulder, "Yes, thank you dear."

"Or, centuries even!" she added.

"Edith, dear, you're not being very helpful." Mama hissed.

Papa said, "Well, glossing over the completely inappropriate hiding place, I want you to fetch that letter so I can have a look at it. I'll decide whether or not it's appropriate. And I think Matthew should be allowed to look at it, if it's bothering him so much."

It took a moment for this to sink in.

"But... it's my letter." I said, but it sounded childish, even to me.

"For god's sake Mary," Papa snapped, "this has gone on long enough. Just fetch the letter and put an end to this nonsense."

Papa nodded at Matthew and Matthew smiled back at him, wanly.

Of course. Of course Papa would take Matthew's side. Sybil, at least, looked sympathetic. Edith looked so unbelievably smug, and I felt so much like I'd just been scolded, and also hurt that Papa would come down so hard on me whilst being so kind to Matthew. And worse still, I could see the edges of my vision starting to blur, and I could feel my face grow warm, and I had this horrible feeling I was going to cry, and that made me angrier than anything.

_Because of course Papa would take Matthew's side._ I should have stayed outside with Diamond.

Despite being ravenous, I left the table to go and fetch the letter. I sent it in with Carson along with a discreet five-pound note, and went up to my room without lunch. The embarrassment was crippling. I just couldn't face the rest of the family after that.

But as I'd left that table, I fancied that Matthew's face looked a little less smug. In fact, he looked almost regretful. I don't think he meant for me to get hurt, but the fact is I did. Our silly little game didn't seem so silly anymore.

But I don't suppose it matters. He can read the letter. There's nothing in it anyway.

* * *

**9th November 1912**

Sybil came to knock on my bedroom door last night, as I was preparing for bed. She took my hand and pressed something into it. It felt like a piece of paper.

"What's this?"

I unfolded it. A five-pound note.

"It's from Matthew." she said, "He wouldn't take it. He said the wager was off."

This irritated me more than it should have.

"He won the bet. I don't want his pity."

"I'm not sure he did win the bet. When Papa had finished with the letter, Matthew refused to read it. I think he felt bad."

I huffed, ungraciously. I was still in a foul mood and secretly thought that Matthew should feel bad.

"Anyway, that's what I came here to say. Matthew asked me to tell you he was sorry and that he didn't read the letter. And when Papa read the letter, he seemed to calm down a bit too. He knows you've not written to Mr Farley and there's nothing in the letter that seems to be scandalous."

I couldn't give a tuppence what Papa thinks. "Didn't stop him from taking Matthew's side though, did it?"

Sybil smiled, sadly. She saw the snub I felt when Papa yelled at me.

"You and Matthew are both as bad as each other. Papa knows that."

Apparently he doesn't, but I decided to let that slide. Perhaps sensing my mood, Sybil decided to climb into bed with me like we used to do when we were children. She stroked my hair and spoke nonsense words to me until at some point, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up again, it was morning and Sybil had gone back to her own room.

I didn't feel quite myself for the rest of the day.

* * *

**10****th**** November 1912**

I've made my peace with Matthew, sort of. He called round to see how I was this morning and I didn't have the energy to keep being angry with him. He kept apologising and apologising until eventually I had no choice but to accept his apology, if only to shut him up.

He didn't stay long, he was late for work as it was. He lingered a bit longer than he should have, like he wanted to say something else but he couldn't find the words.

Later in the day, Granny called round. She was most annoyed that she missed the drama at luncheon and has been interrogating everyone for information ever since. _What did the letters say? How long had this been going on? How did Matthew look? _Etcetera.

She collared me in the yellow day room upstairs. Nobody ever goes in the yellow day room. It used to be the favourite room of some great aunt or other, and even though it's a completely hideous colour, Granny won't let us choose a different wallpaper so we all just try to avoid it. I go there when I want to do some reading or, like today, when I'm feeling particularly humiliated and want to avoid everyone.

"Oh, there you are, Mary dear." Granny said by way of announcement, "I've been looking for you all over. How are you?"

"Hello Granny." I said. "I'm very well, thank you."

I had been reclining in the armchair closest to the window, trying to read. Granny took a similar chair directly opposite me. The interrogation was about to begin.

"Now, about this business with Matthew..." she began. I closed my book.

"Here we go." I said.

"Now I know you've been incredibly put out that the entail has been passed over to Matthew. And I know your father isn't helping matters with his attitude," at this point I scoffed, and received a harsh look from Granny, "but Matthew is trying so very hard to get in your good graces and I think that speaks well of him."

I feel like I've heard this speech a thousand times.

"I'm polite to Matthew." I said, "We get on well. We even laugh together. That's what you want, isn't it? I don't need a lecture on how to play well with others."

"Well, that's just the thing." Granny said, "I was talking with Isobel after the incident with the letters, and do you know what she said? She said that Matthew has been so happy these past couple of weeks. She'd attributed it him spending time with Edith but she's starting to see now that she was wrong."

"Granny..." I said.

"All I'm saying is that Papa has invited Matthew and a few of the neighbours out tomorrow for a hunt. It's an informal thing, only three or four of them going. It would be nice if you could accompany Matthew and see if you can't mend some fences."

I narrowed my eyes at Granny. I didn't like the idea of fox-hunting. It reminded me too much of Kemal Pemuk.

I said, "My fences don't need to be mended."

"Well, reinforce them then. You and Matthew get on so well, and I know he would be pleased. So would Isobel."

I doubt very much that Isobel would be overjoyed, but I didn't contradict her. I liked the idea of being out on Diamond though. And the speeds me and the old girl put in, I could outride Matthew and any of Papa's stuffy old neighbours easily. I could enjoy my own company for a while. If they want to kill small animals, let them. Me and Diamond will be soaring amongst the stars.

"Alright," I said, "What time do I need to be ready?"

"The hunt leaves at nine in the morning." Granny said, happily. "And be sure you stay with Matthew as much as possible. It will be his first hunt you know, and it's important he doesn't feel too anxious."

I wouldn't say I was a particularly soothing influence on Matthew, but again I didn't contradict Granny. I decided I would stay with the hunt for a little while and then, whilst everyone is distracted, Diamond and I will make our escape. But honestly, I'm dreading tomorrow. Why is it always me that gets dragged along on these hunts? Why not Edith? Or Sybil?

Oh well, I better find Anna. My riding boots will need a good polish or I won't be fit to be seen.

* * *

**14th November 1912**

_MARY, _

_It's Edith. I know you're going to be furious with me for poking around in your things, but I'm not sure what else to do. Dr Clarkson says we should try talking to you and I have, we all have, but nothing we say seems to work._

_So here's the deal I want to make with you. You can be as furious as you want with me, only you have to wake up. You can kick, you can scream, you can tear my hair out if you like. Only you have to wake up. _

_For god's sake, I'm crying here. Mama is beside herself. Why do you have to be so stubborn all the time?_

_If you die, I'll never, ever forgive you. _

_Your sister,_

_Edith Crawley. _


	8. Chapter 8

_Wow. Have I really done eight chapters? All I can do is apologise, you guys. It looks like I'm just going to keep shovelling more of this fanfic into the gaping maw of the internet, until either my fingers start bleeding or Dan Stevens comes to his senses. _

_Thank you so much for all your kind words when I've been writing this. I've been getting a lot of questions about how close to canon I'm going to keep this – well, I'm going to try to keep it as close to the original series as I can. The next 'episode' related diary entries we're going to see revolve around the whole Flower Show debacle, which is going to be around April. Although I can't say for sure, because the characters seem to be taking on a life of their own and if I don't reign them in pretty soon, I think Mary is going to jump Matthew. And then NO ONE GETS TO GO TO THE FLOWER SHOW. _

_Sometimes I feel like I'm the fictional one, and they're the ones controlling me. Little brats. _

* * *

**17th November 1912**

_MARY_

_It's Edith again. It's been two days, so I thought I'd keep you updated._

_Mama has been sitting with you this entire time. She keeps talking to you, even though you don't answer back. Sybil is just being Sybil, trying to take care of everybody but herself. She thinks I can't tell, but she's been crying. Her eyes are red. _

_And you should know, Matthew has encamped on a chair outside your hospital room. Cousin Isobel says it wouldn't be proper to let him see you like this, en deshabille and covered in bruises. He won't leave though, and nobody tries to make him. I think he's sleeping now. _

_Papa is quiet. I think he blames himself but mostly he's just quiet. _

_So you see, if you were going to wake up, now would be a really good time._

_Your sister,_

_Edith Crawley. _

* * *

**18th November 1912**

_MARY_

_I'm going to borrow your green shoes if you don't wake up soon. The ones with the pointed toe. If that doesn't get you out of bed, nothing will. _

_Your (impatient) sister,_

_Edith Crawley. _

* * *

**24th November 1912**

_MARY_

_I love you. You're infuriating, and callous, and spoiled, and conceited, and a whole host of other terrible things, but above everything you are my sister and I love you. _

_I would give anything for you to wake up and fight with me. _

_Your sister,_

_Edith Crawley. _

* * *

**2nd December 1912**

_MARY _

_You spoke today! Carson was talking to you and he asked you a question, and you were trying to reply to him, we're all sure of it. None of us can agree on what it was you were trying to say – I thought it sounded like 'I can't make his eyes stay shut' – but Cousin Matthew thinks you said 'ice' instead of 'eyes' and Sybil didn't even venture an opinion on what she heard, she just burst into tears, (tears of joy though, if that helps). And alright, you're not quite awake – not yet – but it's certainly a step in the right direction. You can do it Mary. _

_For god's sake, you certainly know how to drag your feet. Wake up already, would you? Stop being so stubborn. _

_Your sister,_

_Me. _

* * *

**22nd December 1912**

Oh god. Ouch.

* * *

**26th December 1912**

What a miserable christmas. Dr Clarkson had discharged me from hospital early, which I was grateful for, but I had to spend the entire day in bed and you know I can be an absolute bear when I get bored. I couldn't make it down the stairs to the dining room and so I had to miss christmas dinner, but Carson was sweet enough to mash up some goose and vegetables for me, which I tried to eat with limited success. I ate my christmas meal in my bedroom, and Carson kept me company. I even convinced him to wear the hat out of my christmas cracker, but all in all it was a very pathetic affair.

After christmas dinner everybody joined me in the bedroom and I got to watch them all play charades, which was funnier than usual because my bedroom isn't really the largest room in the house and Sybil, Edith and Mama all had to pile on to the bed because there was a lack of places to sit. Sybil trying to mime 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' had me in stitches, (well, literally-speaking I was _already_ in stitches, but I'm sure you know what I mean). Granny and Cousin Isobel got into some kind of ridiculous game of anecdotal one-up-manship. Cousin Isobel insisted that she used to have the coldest winters in Manchester when she was growing up, and Granny was adamant that the coldest winters could only be found in Derbyshire, where she was raised. The evening was only slightly marred by the fact that Matthew wouldn't even look at me, although whether it was his misguided attempt to protect my modesty, (I was in my night-clothes, after all), or whether it was because the extent of my injuries made him wince, I could not tell you.

And then at some point I fell asleep, which I suspect has more to do with the medicine Dr Clarkson prescribed to me than Granny's tales of her youth, but you can never quite be sure.

I can't believe it's christmas already. It's mad, isn't it? Have I really been unconscious this long? Everybody is walking on eggshells around me, and although I can't get out of bed to check myself in the mirror, the looks on their faces tell me that I'm not exactly the picture of health at the moment. But, as Edith keeps pointing out, at least I'm alive. So there is that.

**An Inventory of Mary Crawley's Damaged Body Parts, (by Mary Crawley)**

1. A broken leg.

2. Three broken ribs.

3. A fractured wrist.

4. A concussion.

5. Severely wounded pride, (possibly fatal).

6. Bruises on every part of my body.

7. A swollen face.

8. My hair is a mess.

Also, whilst I have your attention dear diary, I feel like I should point out that the accident wasn't Diamond's fault. Despite this, Papa keeps threatening to send him to the glue factory. I'm not sure how it all happened. Well, actually, that's a lie. I know exactly how it happened.

The weather outside had been frosty all morning and the dogs were having the damnedest (pardon my french), time trying to find so much as a squirrel to hunt down. Matthew and I had started out well. I had kept him company for the first leg of the hunt and I had thought we were getting on alright, until I made some poorly-judged joke about him being middle-class and he decided he would rather ride with my father instead. They rode slower than the rest of the party and seemed engrossed in their conversation. I wasn't spurned exactly, but it did wound my pride a little, especially seeing as Granny had to wheedle me in to coming out with Matthew in the first place.

Not to mention that it's mildly irritating, being the only female in the riding party and having to sit there in the freezing cold listening to the various gentlemen and their ill-informed opinions on politics, women and the like. I don't know about fox-hunting, but if I had to listen to Anthony Strallen talk about farming one more time I was going to take the gun and turn it on myself.

It was unbearable. I slowed my speed just enough to sneak out of everyone's sight and as soon as I knew they couldn't see me, I took off in the other direction. Just a quick ride through the trees, I thought, and then I'd head back to the house. My memory after this point becomes unreliable.

I remember Diamond stopping suddenly and I suppose I just kept travelling. Dr Clarkson said I must've hit the ground very hard. I can't remember anything after that. Papa told me it was hours before anyone found me.

I don't remember much else, but if I do I'll be sure to let you know. But for now, I can barely keep my eyes open. I'll write more later.

* * *

**27th December 1912**

It's nearly one o'clock in the morning. I don't mean to scandalise you but you'll never guess who just snuck into my bedroom. Actually, you probably will guess. There's only one person in the whole of Downton who's too impatient to wait until reasonable hours to check on me.

Obviously, it was Matthew.

I was staring at the ceiling, mulling my own stupidity over when I heard the door to my bedroom creak open and a shadowy figure crept inside. The figure moved very slowly, practically tiptoeing. The door was shut slowly and silently, until the figure started towards my bed, saw I was awake, and stopped.

"What are you doing?" I said. It was dark, but I thought Matthew looked a little flustered, even in the shadowy half-light from my bedroom window.

"Uh..." he said, articulately, "I just wanted to make sure you weren't unconscious again." He scratched the back of his head, "Which obviously, you're not. Which is good."

I tried to sit up in bed, winced, and fell back against the pillows. "Matthew, it's nearly one in the morning. Any sane person is supposed to be unconscious."

"Ah," he smiled, "But _you_ are awake. So by default are you telling me you're not sane?"

"I never claimed to be sane." I said, "Sane is boring. What are you doing here?"

The was a moment of silence. I thought, rather belatedly, that I should be horrified about Matthew sneaking into my room. Lord knows, I was shocked when Kamal Pemuk tried it. There was something different about Matthew though – I trusted him. I knew he wasn't here to try and take advantage of me, and I knew he was smart enough to make sure he wouldn't get caught sneaking into my room. I learnt my lesson about Pamuk in the hardest possible way, and a part of me thought I should have been shooing Matthew out of the door or ringing for help, or something... but I didn't. Actually, I was rather glad of the company.

"I know I'm being ridiculous," Matthew said, "but you were unconscious for so long... I keep thinking that every time you close your eyes, you're going to slip away again. So I just thought I'd make sure."

I watched him shift his feet. He looked like he wanted to apologise, but he restrained himself.

"Goodnight." he said finally, and moved towards the door.

"Wait!" I said, and he stopped. "Can you turn on the lamp for me?"

How pitiful is that? I'm so badly beaten I can't even reach my own bedside lamp. Dr Clarkson has given me something for the pain, and I feel slightly unreal. Like lifting my arms is an enormous effort. Matthew, obligingly, walks over to the bedside cabinet and turns on the lamp, and it's only a small amount of light, but I can see everything in the room and it's suddenly a blessed relief.

Matthew was only in this room a couple of days ago, playing charades. But now he's unchaperoned he takes a moment to fully absorb his surroundings. The dark rose colour of my bedroom wallpaper looks blood-red in this light. The paintings, the ornaments, the trinkets I have lining the mantlepiece. All the little bits and pieces of my life that nobody gets to see, Matthew sees them, and he looks at them all intently like he's trying to memorise them. Like my room is an exhibit in a museum. Le Musée d'Mary. He's soaking it all up. I think to myself, this is how Matthew sees everything. He doesn't just view the world, he devours it. But that's probably just the medicine talking.

His dirty blonde hair and the dark blue of his dressing gown almost makes him look like the Virgin Mary. I tell him this and the words are slurred and I think he laughs at me, but I can't tell.

He sits on the side of the bed and I feel the mattress dip.

"So, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at Crawley House?" I ask, and my voice sounds slow and hoarse with sleep. My eyes feel heavy. Matthew smiles and it's lovely.

"Mother and I are going to be staying a few days. Mother had made herself indispensible with her nursing duties and I'm determined to make myself useful."

I wouldn't call Cousin Isobel 'indispensible' at all. I could dispense with her help quite happily, but I don't tell Matthew that. I can bathe myself and sort of fluff my own pillows, and besides which her hands are cold.

Matthew takes one look at my face and chuckles.

"She's driving you mad, isn't she?"

"Oh god, you have no idea."

"Poor you. If I knew how to call her off, I would."

I smiled. I thought to myself that Matthew was rather sweet. More than sweet, actually. He was considerate and well-mannered and funny. And actually rather handsome too. I thought it was probably the effects of the medicine at work but I could quite happily stare at Matthew all night, and then I realised that Matthew was staring at me, and then I realised I had been thinking aloud, and then I realised I couldn't remember what I had said when I had been thinking aloud and Matthew was smiling at the slight edge of panic in my voice.

"For what it's worth, I think you can be rather sweet too." he said, shyly.

This pleased me, but it angered me that I was pleased. Is there a word for when you're angry that you're pleased? If there is, I bet an american came up with it.

"M'not sweet." I grumbled, my eyes drifting shut "I'm a fierce tigress."

"That, you are." I heard him chuckled, and the flutter of warm fingers brushing the hair off my face. "You gave me quite a shock when we found you."

I scoffed, but it was a tired scoff.

"You wish." I said, before the darkness took me.

I don't know how long I was out, but by the time I came to it was still dark outside, and Matthew was still sitting on the edge of my bed, flicking through one of the novels Sybil bought me for christmas. He seemed engrossed at first, but after a while he gradually came to realise that I was awake and he put the book to one side.

"You're awake." he whispered.

"What time is it?" I asked.

He checked the clock above the fireplace.

"Nearly four in the morning. How are you feeling?"

I considered this question very carefully and concluded that I couldn't feel much at all, and told him so. Matthew smiled at this, but it was not a happy smile.

"Why are you still here?"

"I just wanted to make sure you were still alright. After all, you have a tendency to get yourself into trouble when you're left unsupervised."

I glared at this, but I couldn't argue with it.

"And besides," he said, "I still haven't given you your christmas present."

That woke me up. Call me vapid if you like, but I love getting presents. Matthew chuckled as I tried to struggle into a seated position, and after a while he helped me – but of course, in a very limited way, keeping his hands only on my forearms and not daring to put them on any other part of my body. He was awfully close. I suddenly became very, very aware that my hair was a mess.

Out of the pocket of his dressing gown, Matthew pulled a small box tied together with a green ribbon and presented it with a flourish. I laughed and it made my ribs hurt, but I didn't care.

"You shouldn't have!" I said, with absolutely no conviction.

"I hope you like it. If you don't, I'm sure we can exchange it."

But I was already pulling at the ribbon. I did feel a pang of guilt – I hadn't bought Matthew anything. Well, I suppose an excuse could be made that I've been in a coma for several weeks, but Sybil had told me that her and Edith had bought him a set of kid gloves that was meant to be from all three of us, and Matthew in turn had brought us girls a selection of rather expensive Belgian chocolates to share. I hadn't expected this. When I get up and running again, I'll have to find him something too.

The ribbon fell away and I lifted the lid to the box. I wasn't aware that I had been smiling until the smile died on my face.

"What's wrong?" said Matthew, "Don't you like it? We can pick something else you know, it's no problem."

Like it? _Like it?! _It was a very simple-looking necklace. Silver, not gold, with a pearl teardrop pendant at the end of it. No matching earrings, no bracelet - it was not at all something I would have picked for myself.

Like it?! I think I was _in love_ with it.

Matthew was asking me something but I wasn't really paying attention. I was besotted with the necklace and a little overwhelmed after everything that had happened over the past few days – waking up, being moved back to Downton, everyone being so eerily nice to me, realising I was missing five weeks of my life. And now this. I had to remind myself that Lady Mary Crawley doesn't cry.

Matthew's hand covered mine and tried to pry the box out of my fingers.

"It's fine." He said, "I can take it back."

I tightened my grip on the box and smacked his hand away, perhaps a little more aggressively than was required.

"Ow!" He said, and then, "Did you just snarl at me?"

"It's mine." I said, and then with an attempt at levity I added, "You know I don't like to share."

Matthew rubbed the back of his hand where I'd smacked it.

"So you don't mind it? It's not too plain, is it? You wouldn't have preferred something more fussy?"

I fished the necklace out of the box and dangled the chain between my fingers.

"It's perfect!" I said, and then remembering my manners, I added, "Thank you Matthew. Really, thank you. I'm sorry I didn't get you anything."

As I wrestled with the clasp on the chain and fixed the necklace around my neck, Matthew watched and smiled.

"Well, you were in hospital so I suppose I could learn to forgive you, in time."

I rolled my eyes.

"Haha, Matthew Crawley. Very funny." The chain finally fastened and I felt the cold smoothness of the pendant as it touched my skin. I felt very pleased with it. I looked to Matthew for his opinion, but he seemed to be very serious all of a sudden.

"Mary, when you disappeared..."

I shook my head, "It doesn't matter." I said.

"No," he insisted, "it does matter. When you disappeared in the woods that day, I don't remember ever being so scared in my entire life. One minute you were right behind me and the next, you were gone. And when we finally found you and your body was all twisted and there was all this blood..." he seemed to trail off, lost in his thoughts, "Mary, I thought you were dead."

I thought I might be in danger of crying again. So what I said next, I said very slowly and very deliberately to try and keep my voice calm.

"I wasn't dead though. Remember that."

Matthew didn't seem to hear me.

"I thought you were dead and I thought it was my fault. If I had only stayed with you on the hunt..."

I leaned forward.

"It _wasn't_ your fault." I said, vehemently. And then, to punctuate the message, I punched him in the arm, hard.

"What was that for?!"

"For being an idiot." I said, "It was not your fault. Don't ever say that again."

He rubbed his arm, "Alright. Message received and understood."

"And furthermore," I said, "if that's why you brought me this necklace – out of some misplaced sense of guilt – then you can take it back now, because I don't want it!"

Matthew shook his head, "No. That's not why I got you the necklace."

"Well, good." I said. Because I really had no intention of surrendering the necklace at all. My hand clasped around the pendant protectively.

"So," Matthew sighed, "about the other thing..."

I leaned against the headboard and watched him smooth the silk coverlets with his hand. I didn't much like the serious turn of this conversation. The life and death of it all. Give me bickering any day. Give me shouting matches. Give me flirting, for god's sake. Just don't look so sad, please.

"What 'other thing'?" I said.

"About what I said, when we found you. In the woods."

It took a moment for this to sink in. I hadn't known Matthew had been there when they found me. Frankly I couldn't remember anything about it. Papa had told me it had been himself and William who had stumbled across my bruised and battered body. He said that I had been drifting in and out of consciousness for a little while, that I had even spoken to them. I remember none of it.

"What did you say?"

His head snapped up.

"You don't remember?"

Well, obviously not. I pointed to my head wound, which I thought would have been self explanatory. For a minute, Matthew looked hurt. Then he looked relieved. Then he looked, I don't know, irritated?

"So you don't remember what I said?" He said it like an accusation.

"No." I said, just as sharply, "What did you say?"

Matthew wasn't listening, "And I suppose that means you also don't remember what _you _said?"

He rolled his eyes, as if to say 'typical!' Well, I'm sorry Matthew if getting my head caved-in is proving to be a slight annoyance to you. He caught my look and his facial expression softened. When he next spoke, it sounded sad.

"You really don't, do you?"

I wanted to shake him. What did you say, Matthew? What did I say? Why did Papa lie about who found me in the woods?! TELL ME. THERE'S NOTHING I HATE MORE THAN SECRETS.

He shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. We'll talk about it some other time." And with that, he left. I called after him, but he didn't so much as look back and it wasn't as if I could chase after him.

So now I'm left, exhausted, in pain and wide awake. What did Matthew say to me? And worse, what did I say to Matthew? I suppose if I did say anything incriminating or embarrassing I could always explain it away with the fact that I have a head wound. Nevertheless, I'm determined to find out. I'm going to try to get some sleep now, but I'll probably just lie awake some more and turn this over in my head.

But, as Edith keeps pointing out, at least I'm alive. And now I have a necklace. So there is that.


	9. Chapter 9

_Hi guys! It's Sunday again! Update timeeeeeeeee! I'm sorry if this chapter seems short to you, (maybe it's not short at all, maybe I just have mad chapter-length insecurities), I've not been able to write as much as I'd like to this week. Or rather, I've not been able to further the plot as much as I'd like, because I had this idea for an awesome scene and I just haven't had the time to reach that part of the plot yet. But at least the next chapter is already half-written, so I might update the story later on in the week and then you can have two doses of Mary-Matthew Madness in the space of a few days! Or maybe I won't. I don't know. I'd say anything right now to get out of being lynched for being a bad author. __Don't lynch me, please! I have kids! Well, no, I don't. I have goldfish. But they're like Black Moor Goldfish and they're very high-maintenance, so you can't kill me. M__an, I babble. I'm sorry._

_Enjoy the story!_

* * *

**29th December 1912**

Sybil and Mama have been taking it in turns to keep me company whilst I am bedridden, but despite their best efforts I simply can't stand it anymore. I can't live like this. I'm going mad.

"Look at it this way," Mama said, "your leg is almost healed, so it won't be for long."

Sybil nodded. "Mama's right. And once the snow has cleared, we can see Dr Clarkson about getting you a wheelchair!"

I appreciate their efforts, I really do, but the situation is untenable. Cousin Isobel is still trying to nurse me. Well, to say she is nursing me almost makes it sound like I am a willing participant in the venture, perhaps what I should say is that Cousin Isobel is _inflicting_ nursing upon me. Every little thing is an argument with her. I keep telling her NO, I don't want a bed bath. No, I don't want any medicine. No, I don't want you to read to me. She doesn't listen to a word I say. Last night she tried to spoon-feed me some soup. SPOON FEED me. I ask you! I might be injured, but I think I can just about manage to operate a spoon, thank you very much. I'm not a complete invalid.

In other news, Matthew is nowhere to be seen. I wonder if he's still at Downton or if he's gone back to Crawley House. I thought he might come and visit me whilst I'm still confined to my bed, but no. I think I've genuinely hurt his feelings, and not for the first time in my life I'm baffled as to what I've done wrong.

I feel like I'm torn in two. I'm dying to know what was said when he found me, but I'm also terrified of knowing the answer. Was it humiliating? Was it, you know, _romantic?_ Whatever it was, he's seems terribly angry that I can't remember. It's not really my fault though, I was concuss. I have half a mind to give him a head injury and see how he likes it.

Oh god, I've got to go. Cousin Isobel is here and it looks like she's brought a thermometer with her. I'm determined not to have my temperature taken. She may well be Matthew's mother, but if she comes withing three feet of me with that thing, I'm stabbing the thermometer in her eye.

* * *

**30th December 1912**

Now I am not only an invalid, I am also a prisoner.

Last night, as everyone met downstairs for dinner, I found myself left alone in my bedroom and wide awake for the first time in weeks. I can't deny that it wasn't a relief. With Cousin Isobel at dinner it meant I had at least a good couple of hours of freedom in which nobody would try to bathe me, baby me or otherwise ply me with opiate-based medication. Despite this fact, it took less than five minutes for me to realise that I was still confined to my bed and had no one to talk to.

It took less than ten minutes for me to get myself into trouble.

Well, I reasoned, my leg _was_ almost completely healed. And no sane woman could be expected to be left alone in bed all day. I stretched all of the muscles in my arms and legs, testing the pain and their strength, and making reasonable calculations as to how I might get across the room to my dresser and, coincidentally, my stationary. I would write to Cousin Matthew and demand he come and visit me at once. I had already decided, in one of those extrordinary moments when women have a complete 180 degree change of opinion, that the horse-riding accident _was_ Matthew's fault after all. I know I said it wasn't, but that was before he decided to ignore me. Now I had decided he was obligated to come and keep me company, seeing as he was the one who put me in this situation in the first place. God help him when I was mobile again.

I have to tell you, my leg was in agony. The pain was like nothing I have ever experienced. It was the sort of pain that commands your entire attention, that completely consumes you, until the rest of the world falls away and you can't remember anything else except that you're you, and you're in pain. It was madness. The room seemed to spin for a little bit, but I knew I really I had to get that letter written and I really, _really _wanted to check my reflection in the mirror, so I wasn't about to let a little leg pain stop me. After all, women go through childbirth don't they? We're built to withstand a little searing pain

My arms seemed to be the less painful of all the limbs, so I let them take all the weight as I used them to levy myself against the bedside cabinet and slowly, every-so slowly, lower myself into a seating position on the floor. My arms shook with the effort, and the pain was like hot knives, and it wasn't until I was on the floor that I realised I hadn't thought of any way to get back into bed. Oh well, I thought. I'd have to deal with that later. Right now, I had bigger fish to fry.

Feeling very bold I tried to shuffle on my posterior towards the dresser, but I think I must have made it less that two feet before the pain overwhelmed me and I had to stop for a minute. Oh god, it was agony. Definitely one of the stupider ideas I've ever come up with. I lay down on the floor and decided I was an idiot, and if I died right there on the carpet it would probably be no less than I deserved. It was at this point that Isis nudged the bedroom door open, as she is often wont to doing, and came over to investigate my prostrate form on the floor. Rather than fetch help like some kind of normal, well-trained dog, Isis decided to lick my face and then curl up next to me and fall asleep. Stupid animal.

I lay there for some time, trying to muster up the courage to move. I made it about another foot or so and had to stop. At some point I closed my eyes and I presume I must have been dosing because the next thing I knew there was a loud scream and an even louder clatter, which caused me jolt awake and twist my already damaged limbs. This resulted in an even louder, more horrifying scream, which I was ashamed to realise came from me.

Gwen. It was Gwen, and she was standing in the doorway. She had walked in on me lying on the floor, looking pale and motionless, and had naturally assumed I had dropped dead, to which her response was screaming like a Hollywood actress and throwing the tray on the floor. _Honestly. _I suppose I shouldn't be too hard on her. The poor girl looked absolutely horrified. Isis lifted her head just long enough to enquire after the food that had been dropped and seeing that it was only Mrs Patmore's mutton soup, (yikes), lay down and went back to sleep.

"Ah, Gwen." I said, in as calmer voice as I could manage, "Now, try not to over-react, but..."

It was too late. Gwen has a voice that could wake the dead and that, compared with my own screaming, it was enough to unleash hell upon Downton. The otherwise quiet abbey was suddenly transported into a whirlwind of activity. Everything seemed to happen at once. Anna came pelting down the hallway with Mrs Hughes in tow. I could hear a faint crash as the doors to the dining room were thrown open, and then the stampede of people charging up the stairs. There was shouting, there was swearing, there was panic. It was only a few moments, but before long a lot of other faces peered over Gwen's shoulder in the door. Anna's. Carson's. Papa and Matthew. In fact, the whole house had come running to my rescue, only to pause in the doorway and watch me founder on the floor. I lifted my head weakly off the carpet and said, "Hello everyone."

Papa suddenly looked very, very tired.

"God in Heaven, Mary! Can't you behave like a normal woman for once in your life?"

"I don't know, Papa." I said, "What do normal women behave like?"

Granny, who doesn't like to be in the back row of any drama, elbowed her way to the front.

"For heaven's sake Mary, what are you doing on the floor?"

Their lack of concern for my wellbeing was charming.

"Oh no," I said sarcastically, "I'm _fine_ Granny. Thank you for asking."

And when Granny - or anyone, for that matter - didn't immediately move to help me I sighed in exasperation and said, "I just wanted to write a letter, alright? I just didn't make it very far."

I watched everyone watching me. Papa looking tired. Matthew trying and failing not to look cross. Granny who, despite herself, was trying not to look amused.

"Oh for god's sake," I said, "this isn't Drury Lane, people. Can somebody please help me up?"

Of course, it was left to Carson to run to my aid. Whilst Granny was all but poking me with her walking stick, Carson knelt down beside me and placed an arm under my neck.

"I'm going to try to lift you milady."

Papa moved to stand beside him but didn't offer to help.

"Are you sure you can manage Carson?" he said.

Now, I love Carson, and he's the most gallant man I know, but I didn't have a lot of faith in his ability to pick me up and get me back to my sickbed. From the look on his face, Carson didn't seem to have a lot of faith either, but he was gritting his teeth and seemed determined to give it a try. Oh dear, I didn't see this ending well.

"Could we maybe ring for Thomas?" I said, "Or William?" Someone to help that wasn't over the age of fifty?

"I'll do it." said a familiar voice. It was Matthew, albeit not a Matthew I recognised. _My _Matthew smiled and made silly jokes and looked faintly embarrassed a lot of the time. _This _Matthew looked tired and cross and wouldn't even make eye-contact with me.

"Are you sure it's quite proper, sir?" said Carson, airily.

"Well, I'd say we have enough chaperones here, don't you?" he snapped.

One of his arms snaked behind my back and another arm, moving slower and with more care, scooped me up under the thighs of my legs. I had maybe a moment for the shock to register as he lifted me effortlessly into the air, and then the searing pain set in and I gripped onto his arms and screamed for dear life. He moved swiftly and lay me back on the bed, but it took another moment and several of the more colourful words in my vocabulary before the pain subsided and I didn't quite let go of his arms as quickly as I should have. Belatedly, I thought that Matthew's arms were warm. He was warm, and his skin smelt like soap and something else, something natural. By the time the pain had settled I was practically euphoric. Matthew's hand was stroking my hair and I could hear him whispering, "It's alright. It's going to be alright. Shush." When I let him go, his face had softened and I think I caught looking at the necklace I was wearing. The one he had bought for me. He didn't seem quite so cross with me anymore.

Papa was sitting next to me on the bed. Carson dutifully standing over his shoulder looking worried. Everyone else, it would seem, had been scared off by my screaming.

"Very well done, Matthew." Papa was saying, "Good fellow. Carson, why don't you fetch Mrs Crawley and see if she has any of that the pain medication left?"

I groaned and covered my face with a pillow. Please, no. Not Cousin Isobel. But lo, she was fetched and medication was administered and everything after that goes black. The last thing I remember is Matthew stroking my hair, and Papa asking me who I was planning to write to. I can't remember if I answered him.

So anyway, to cut a long story short I'm not allowed to be left unsupervised any longer. The women in my family have worked out a rota for keeping me monitored at all times. Mama and Anna stay with me in the morning. Through lunch and the early afternoon it's Sybil and Edith and then in the evening it's Granny. Naturally my jailer, Cousin Isobel, will pop her head in from time to time and threaten to check for bed sores.

I haven't seen Matthew since my attempt at escaping.

But still, I don't think he's quite so cross with me anymore so maybe my little escapade wasn't a complete loss.

* * *

**3rd January 1913**

The New Year passed without incident.

**New Year's Resolutions, (by Lady Mary Crawley)**

**1. To not get any more head injuries, (getting a concussion is like taking a holiday to Southport. Once is quite enough).**

**2. ****To be nicer to Cousin Matthew, (because he's not such a bad sort, really). **

**3. To support Sybil in all her weird 'Liberal' activities, (this includes but is not limited to: finding Gwen another job, helping her canvass if she wants to and maybe, but only maybe, attending one or two political rallies). **

**4. Pour améliorer mon français.**

**5. Find a suitable husband so that I can...**

**6. Become filthy rich and gain a little freedom. **

Papa is going to head down into London at the end of the month. It's the start of the London Season. I really ought to be going with him, but seeing as I am crippled for the foreseeable future it's just going to be Mama and Edith doing the Society Rounds this year, (Sybil will be staying here with me, as she's not officially 'Out' in Society until next near). Edith is overjoyed not to have any competition for attention at any of the various balls or masquerades or what-have-you and, even if she won't admit it, Sybil is also overjoyed that she won't be stuck at home alone again this year.

I am decidedly furious that I can't gallivant around town, as this means I now have to put New Year's Resolutions 5 & 6 on hold for a least a month or two whilst I recover. But I accept the fact that in my current condition I look like Joseph Merrick, and I know I will just have to be patient and focus on getting better, before I find my handsome prince. This was the exact turn of phrase I used with Granny last night, as she was sitting by my bedside.

"You shouldn't be worrying so much about finding a 'handsome prince', Mary. You ought to be focusing your attentions on securing Matthew. He's the heir to Downton."

Of course. I'd forgotten about Granny's one-woman mission to get me married off to Matthew. My riding injuries had bought me a few weeks of respite, but now it seems she was back on form. I briefly disregarded my annoyance that she hadn't disputed that I looked like Joseph Merrick, (_thank you_, Granny), and focused instead on the more important issue.

"Granny, Matthew and I are not going to get married. When are you going to accept that?"

Granny looked affronted.

"Why on earth not? Because he's a solicitor?"

"No, of course not." I snapped back. And I was astonished to find I was telling the truth. The myriad of reasons I had come up with for not marrying Matthew, him being a middle-class solicitor was no longer even on the list.

For reference, the list is as follows:

**Reasons Why Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley Could Not Possibly Marry: **

**1. I'm not sure he's even talking to me.**

**2. It would be playing into Granny and Papa's hands, (there's nothing I hate worse). **

**3. The Pamuk Incident.**

**4. He already has a legion of admirers who would plot to assassinate me at the drop of a hat, (including but not limited to: Edith, Mags, that secretary that types in his office, possibly Thomas and Isis). **

**5. (And most importantly) I'm fairly certain he doesn't want to marry me, (see also his comments when we first met: 'they're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me...', etc). **

Such logic is lost on Granny.

"Matthew is clearly a little sweet on you." she said, "It wouldn't take much for you to secure him."

Secure him? _Secure him? _What am I supposed to do, tie him to a chair? Handcuffs, perhaps? Granny makes everything sound so Machiavellian.

"Matthew is not sweet on me." I said, "I don't know where you got that impression."

Granny gave me a skeptical look, but said nothing. Our conversation ended there but I doubt very much that I've heard the last on that subject.

* * *

**6th January 1913**

Being trapped in a bed gives you plenty of time to think. Really, I don't think I'd mind being married to Matthew at all. I tried so very hard to hate him in the beginning, but he's shown me nothing but kindness and despite myself, he always manages to make me smile. He's very intelligent. And I suppose, if I'm being completely honest with myself, he really does have the nicest arms. That probably sounds strange, doesn't it? But I've been thinking a lot about his arms since he picked me off the floor. They're very firm, you know. And there are worst fates out there than being forced to marry a man that you happen to be lusting after around the clock.

Ahem, you can probably ignore that last thing.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I am planning to marry Matthew at all. We're not at all well suited and we'd argue all the time. In fact, the man infuriates me. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that maybe Matthew isn't quite the sea monster I made him out to be in the beginning.

It's all a moot point, because Matthew isn't even talking to me and the possibility that he'd even want me for his wife is so small, it's negligible. Isn't it?

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

_First things first – you're going to be reading through the beginning of this chapter and thinking 'haven't I read this before?' You have. Since I was a bad little authoress last week and ended Chapter 9 halfway through a diary entry, I thought I'd try to rectify the situation by moving that half a diary entry into Chapter 10, so the story isn't fragmented. Does that make any sense? Anyway, what I'm trying to say is don't be worried if the next 500 words or so seem familiar. You're not going mad. Or maybe you are, but not because of this story. Probably._

_(Also, it gives me the chance to correct a couple of spelling mistakes, as people quite rightly pointed out, I don't know how to spell the word 'gallant'. DOH!)_

_Also I promised you a mid-week update, but today is Friday and I don't think I can reasonably classify that as 'mid-week'. All I can do is apologise. I'll do better, promise. Thank you for all your feedback and kind words. You feed my starving soul._

* * *

**7th January 1913**

Today is Sunday. Everybody has gone to church. _Everybody_. After that it will be polite conversation with the vicar and then tea and sandwiches at Crawley House, as per the usual routine. For the next couple of hours, I am officially alone. I can't tell you how happy this makes me.

Well, perhaps I should say I'm _almost_ alone. Papa doesn't quite trust me by myself after the little 'Houdini Debacle' of a few days ago, (or that's what Sybil likes to call it). Therefore Thomas the Footman has been appointed 'Roman Century' outside my door, and is not letting anyone in or out. Nice try, Papa. Unluckily for my dearest father, Thomas is a man of questionable virtue.

I called Thomas into the bedroom on the pretext of picking up a cushion I had dropped, (or more accurately, thrown), on to the floor. Seeing that there was no easy way to bring this up in conversation, I said as casually as I could:

"Thomas, you like bribes, don't you?"

He paused where he was, bent over the cushion.

"I don't know what you mean, milady?"

He knew exactly what I meant. Thomas is both fickle and mercenary, even by my standards.

"I think ten pounds should do the trick, don't you?" I said, leaning over to my bedside cabinet and pulling out a note or two, "All I ask is your complete discretion. And, of course, a little heavy lifting."

Thomas stared at me blankly, then stared at the money, then stared at me again. He at least had the decency to feign indecision, but we both knew he wanted the money.

"What exactly is it you'd like me to do, milady?"

I briefed Thomas on his role. I had learnt from my previous mistakes and took a healthy dose of pain medication to ready myself for my next escape attempt. Thomas was to carry me down the main staircase and out into the garden. It was a bright day and unseasonably warm and frankly it seemed very cruel to keep me locked indoors whilst everyone else got to go outside and roam around in the sunshine. Thomas was then under strict instructions to leave me on the bench by the cedar trees with a glass of orange juice and a copy of 'What Maisie Knew', and he was only to return in an hour and a half's time, to carry me back to my bedroom before any members of my unsuspecting family got back.

It was, I thought, the perfect plan. And I must admit, the first part of it was executed beautifully.

Thomas carried me down the stairs as if I weighed nothing and, as promised, deposited me on the garden bench, before disappearing into the house to fetch my drink and a copy of the book I requested. I inhaled deeply, the taste of air and freshly-cut grass was sweet on my tongue. This was what freedom felt like.

_"What the hell was that?!"_

I felt my heart sink in my chest.

"Matthew." I said, brightly. "Hello! Why aren't you at church?"

If he'd heard what I said, he didn't acknowledge it. He was locked in the furnace of his own wild thoughts. Gone was the sweet Matthew from a few nights ago that stroked my hair and told me everything was going to be alright. Furious Matthew was back and his face was incandescent with rage

"What the hell was that Mary?" he said. He pointed towards the house and my eyes followed his line of sight. _What the hell was what?_ Oh yes, I thought. He must have seen me being carried out to the bench.

"You mean, Thomas?"

"Yes, I mean Thomas! He was carrying you, Mary! In his arms!" I didn't think it was possible for Matthew's face to get any redder, but it did, "Why was he carrying you?"

"I suppose because I wouldn't fit in his pocket?" I thought a bit of light humour would defuse the situation immediately, but it didn't. I couldn't remember ever seeing Matthew being quite this angry.

"Damn it Mary, I'm serious." Matthew stopped himself, breathed deeply and said, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to swear. But that was-..." he seemed to struggle for words, "He was... his hands were all over you!"

I feel I should intercept here diary, and point out that Thomas' hands were _not_ all over me. Although Thomas did carry me very easily down the stairs, I don't think I've ever seen a man more unhappy to handle a woman than Thomas was at that moment. In fact, Thomas is quite famous in the house for being disinterested in women, if you catch my meaning.

The fact that Matthew was making such a stir about me being carried by Thomas, of all people, was ridiculous.

"Matthew, it's only _Thomas._" I said, as if that should explain everything.

But of course, Matthew wasn't even listening. He sat next to me on the bench and seemed to be running over some words in his mind, preparing himself to say something. He started a couple of sentences that ultimately didn't lead anywhere and gestured emphatically with his hands. It was rather endearing to watch, even if he was trying to make me see the error of my ways. There was no easy way to tell him that if he wanted to defend my innocence, that ship had sailed. It had sailed, hit an iceberg and sank a long time ago.

"Mary, I know you're perfectly innocent in all this." I couldn't get the image of Kemal Pamuk out of my head. Matthew kept talking, oblivious. "But just because Thomas is in your father's employ doesn't mean his motives are pure. You might think he was just interested in helping you down the stairs but I'm fairly certain he was interested in... other things."

"Really?" I couldn't stop myself from smiling, "Because I'm fairly certain he wasn't."

"Mary..." Matthew warned.

"Matthew." I said, "It's _Thomas_." I grabbed his hand. I don't know why. I thought I could make him understand. Matthew looked at my hand holding his, and I could see the fight go out of him. "It's _Thomas._" I said again, slower. I stared at Matthew and willed him to understand what I was trying to say, what everybody else already knew. Matthew stared back at me, blankly.

It took a moment, but his blue eyes widened. His lips parted.

"Oh." he said. And then he said, "Oh!" again, with a little more understanding, and then another "Ohhhhh..." as the implications finally sunk in. Matthew shook his head. "You mean to say that Thomas is a... well..."

I let go of Matthew's hand, "I mean to say that Thomas would be more inclined to carry you than carry me."

Matthew blinked. He blinked a couple more times.

"Crikey." he said.

I watched his reaction with some amusement. "You are alright with that sort of thing, aren't you? You don't mind Thomas being, well, different?"

Matthew shook himself out of his stupor.

"Of course I don't mind." Matthew said, "That's his business. It's rather a relief actually. I thought he was taking advantage of you."

"Well," I said, "you can't criticise a man for carrying me in his arms. After all, you carried me a few nights ago, remember? And you weren't taking advantage of me, were you? You were trying to be gallant."

When Matthew didn't answer immediately, I turned to face him and saw he was trying to suppress a smile.

"That's right. Gallant." He said. "I was being gallant."

This was said in such a mischievous tone of voice. I shouldn't have found it funny, but I did.

"So," I said to Matthew, "you didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

Matthew smiled but couldn't quite meet my eye. Instead he focused on drilling a hole into the grass with the toe of his shoe.

"Actually, it's part of the arrangement with Mother." he admitted, "They all go to church and I stay behind at the house in case you get yourself into troub-... well, in case there's an emergency or something."

My eyes narrowed at his slip of the tongue, but I decided to let it go. Matthew still wouldn't look at me, so I elbowed him in the ribs. When he did look up I gave him my best smile – the one I normally reserve for Society functions. It is by far my most flirtatious smile. Only the very crème de la crème of British Aristocracy get to see this smile. In three years, I haven't used this smile on anyone who ranks lower than a Duke, and now it's getting directed at Matthew. He looks at me, he sees me smile and he smiles back despite himself. Even the stoic Matthew Crawley cannot be entirely immune to its charms.

"Why didn't you come and see me?" I said, "I could have used the company. I'm going mad up there."

Matthew was still smiling as he shook his head, but now his smile seemed a little sad.

"I wanted to," he said, "but I just couldn't."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" I said, with the smile still plastered all over my face. Edith has often said that when I try to flirt, I have all the tact of a bull in china shop. The funny thing is, I think she meant it as an insult.

Matthew looked very serious. My smile faltered. This was the smile that got me a dance with the Prince of Wales a year previously, and now it couldn't even raise a response from a simple country solicitor. I must be losing my touch.

"Mary, do you really not remember anything about the night we found you?"

The smile died entirely.

I've tried to remember. Really, I have. I've had the most terrible dreams. Dreams where I've been lying on my side in the mud, watching the sky get darker and darker. Dreams where I can't move my body. The smell of the earth. The first few cold drops of rain on the side of my face and my eye is sticky with something, and it feels like it's been glued shut. Sometimes I think I can remember Matthew being there, but sometimes not. Oh god, the mud.

"Don't," Matthew said, "it's alright. I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

He moves closer to me on the bench and puts an arm around me and I realise, with some annoyance, that I'm shaking. I'm shaking and I don't even know why I'm shaking and I hate myself for it.

"I remember parts of it. I remember mud." I said, and my voice is quite steady.

"But that's all?" Matthew says, softly.

"I'm sorry." I said, because I was sorry. I wanted so desperately to know what I said to him that night that had the power to make him so happy one minute and so sad the next. For once in my life I had said exactly the right words at exactly the right moment and now I couldn't remember them, and Matthew looked so sad. He was so close to me. Little more than a breath away really. The thought shocked me, but I was determined to ignore it. After all, I told myself, it was only Matthew.

"Look," I said, "just tell me what I said and maybe I'll remember. It might jog my memory."

Matthew smiled ruefully but shook his head.

"You hit your head, Mary. It probably doesn't mean anything."

"Yes, but _what_ doesn't mean anything? I won't know unless you tell me."

I looked at Matthew and he looked at me. His look, I suspect, was supposed to reproachful but I'm sorry to say I'm not easily reproached. I stared him down defiantly. His arm was still wrapped around me and I could feel the heat of his skin through the thin linen of my dressing gown and there was nothing but the sound of wind rustling through the trees and the birdsong in the air to distract us. Maybe I was mistaken, but I thought I felt his hand apply a little pressure on my arm. No, I was sure of it. It was only a slight pressure, nothing forceful, more of an encouragement. Matthew was trying to tell me, in his own subtle way, that if I wanted to move closer to him on the bench that he was quite amenable. I moved a little closer, and his arm tightened around me and pulled me closer still.

He was very near, now. Very, very near. And again, that smell – that clean smell of soap and something else, something undefinable. He smelled so very... _Matthew._ His face was merely inches away now, no distance at all really, and there was that small, nagging voice at the back of my head that kept screaming about propriety and Kemal Pamuk and a whole host of other perfectly sane reasons why I should put a stop to whatever this was, but Matthew's gaze seemed to unfocus and drop to my lips, and before I knew it he was drawing me forward and I remember thinking that I felt so terribly warm, but that this definitely a bad idea. And I really had no idea what had happened to my resistan-...

"Your orange juice, milady."

Matthew jumped away from me, like he'd been scolded with hot water. Thomas was standing behind us both, my glass of orange juice in one hand and my copy of Henry James in the other.

"Thank you, Thomas." I said, with no gratitude whatsoever. I took the items off him and glared at him, waiting for him to leave. But he didn't. He just stood there smirking, the Roman Century, not moving and not affording Matthew or I any degree of privacy whatsoever.

"You can go now, Thomas." I said.

"Oh, I don't know, milady." Thomas said, "I don't think his Lordship would like it, if I left you unsupervised."

This was clearly rubbish. There is nothing his Lordship would like better than to leave Matthew and I unsupervised. If he could lock us in a room with nothing but candles and pages of the Karma Sutra glued to the walls, he would. Actually, that's more Granny's style, but I think you catch my meaning.

"If you want to chaperone us, you can do it from over there." I said, pointing towards the main entrance of the house. Thomas did not move. I was beginning to wonder why I bothered to bribe him. I was beginning to wonder how much I would have to bribe him to get him to leave.

"Don't worry, Thomas." Matthew said, withdrawing his arm and scooting further away from me on the bench, "We'll be on our best behaviour, I promise."

Thomas looked at Matthew with ill-disguised adoration and nodded, before walking over towards the door and keeping a watchful eye on us from there. What is it about Matthew Crawley that has everyone eating out of the palm of his hand? Is it the eyes? It's the eyes, isn't it. What a bloody nuisance.

I glared at Thomas with every step he took, and when I turned towards Matthew I glared at him too. Matthew, in contrast, seemed to find the whole thing rather funny.

"What are you laughing at?" I said, as Matthew tried and failed for the third time to stifle himself.

"You!" he said, "You look positively murderous! Oh, Mary."

"It's not funny, Matthew." I said as I crossed my arms, which only caused him to collapse into laughter again and it seemed that the angrier I got, the funnier he seemed to find it.

It irritated me that Matthew and I could share such a strange and powerful moment, and yet Matthew could remain completely unmoved by it. It rather made me wonder if I hadn't imagined the whole thing. I briefly contemplated pouring the glass of orange juice over his head and the thought cheered me, but ultimately my good mood had soured. I sat there and sipped my glass, sullenly. After a small amount of cajoling by Matthew, I continued our conversation, but after ten minutes I faked a headache and signalled Thomas to come and carry me inside.

"Ah, no no!" Matthew said, with a good deal more cheeriness than he had any right to, "This is my job, remember? I'm the gallant one."

Gallant, my foot. If I was back to my former strength, I would make Matthew eat my copy of Henry James, page by page. I don't take well to being laughed at.

Whether he sensed my anger or not, Matthew scooped me up in his arms and proceeded towards the house with a slight spring in his step. With so much spring, in fact, I was obliged to wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life. Over Matthew's shoulder, I could see Thomas glaring at me, so I loudly made a comment about how muscular Matthew's arms seemed to be, which seemed to both please Matthew and irritate Thomas, respectively, which was the desired effect.

Shortly after I was deposited in my room, the family returned home and nobody was any the wiser.

* * *

**8th January 1913**

Despite my impatience yesterday, Dr Clarkson has given his permission for me to be brought downstairs and I now have a wheelchair of my very own. My new current past-time is getting Sybil to push me at great speeds up and down the main hall, which of course drives Mama mad. I think I heard her say she preferred it when I was in a coma.

Matthew has started to visit me again and things are very much as they ever were. We don't talk about the _thing_ that happened yesterday, and we don't talk about what was allegedly said in the woods. It's all terribly frustrating, but Matthew actually seems quite happy for the first time in a while, so I'm not going to upset the boat.

In an unrelated note, Isis is acting weird. Well, weirder than usual. She's eating less and sleeping more, and if I didn't know any better I'd say she was depressed. Papa is distraught. We all gathered around Isis in the library, watching her lie on her side, inhaling and exhaling lethargically.

Matthew snorted, "She's not depressed. I've never met a more exuberant dog in my life."

Papa stroked her back, soothingly, "I'm telling you Matthew, she's just not herself. Look at her."

Matthew did look at her, but all he could see was a dog. I could tell what Papa meant. Isis had been a little bit subdued lately, but that was nobody's fault. I was sure she'd pick up in no time. Sybil had her own opinions, and glared accusingly at Matthew.

"What?" he said, innocently. And when she didn't immediately respond, he said, "What?!" again with an added note of incredulity.

"You've been neglecting her." Sybil said, with such sincerity that I nearly spat tea across the room.

"Really, Mary, it's not funny." said Papa, still fussing over Isis.

But it was. It really, really was.


	11. Chapter 11

_**Author's Note:** Oh god, you have no idea what I've been through trying to get this chapter online. I've been busy this week - the 5000ish words you see before you were written in the space of two days, which is quite impressive for me. Unfortunately, on Wednesday my laptop decided it didn't want to work anymore and died a sudden and horrible death, (this is what we call in the business 'pulling a Dan Stevens'... too soon?). I have been wrestling with the laptop all weekend and only ten minutes ago did I manage to get it running again, and thereby rescue Chapter 11 from oblivion. I am exhausted. _

_I'm sorry, this chapter should be longer... there was a scene I was working up to, but it seems fate has intervened. I'm also sorry for my catty remark about Dan Stevens. No Dan Stevens were harmed during the making of this chapter._ _Oh, and blah blah blah, Julian Fellowes owns the rights to Downton, etcetera. Thank you all for your patience and your kind words. Feedback and questions are always welcome, and I'm sorry if I haven't got round to answering your questions yet. I will, but first I have to SLEEP. _

* * *

**10th January 1913**

Dear diary. For your convenience, here is a quick summary of all the news from Downton in the past few days. Forgive me if it is a little dull.

1. Papa is leaving for London today, as Parliament is due to open soon and as the Earl of Grantham, he's required to at least pretend he cares about politics. Mama and Edith will be following him in a few days, when The Season begins to pick up. Until then, Edith is busying herself with picking out new dresses and rubbing it in my face that I will be stuck in the countryside recuperating whilst she's off seducing members of the Aristocracy and undoubtedly getting lots and lots of marriage proposals, (her words, not mine. VOMIT).

2. I am in a foul mood, (and if you want to know why, I refer you to Points 1 and 5). I refuse to 'be a sport about it' as Papa has so nicely asked me. I am planning to sulk for the foreseeable future, and there is literally nothing anyone can do to stop me.

3. Sybil and Gwen the Housemaid are plotting their 'Socialist Revolution'. My darling younger sister is still trying to find alternative employment for Gwen, although Gwen herself seems to have lost her enthusiasm for the venture. Nothing dampens your spirit like repeated failure. Which brings me on to Point 4...

4. Branson, (the chauffeur), seems to be staring at my aforementioned sister an awful lot and _sighing_. Honestly, I swear to you, he actually_ sighs._ I don't think anyone has ever sighed over me before. Sybil herself doesn't seem to notice. And although poor Branson isn't the first poor sap to fall head over heels with my oblivious sister, I still make a point of glaring at him whenever our paths cross, because he needs to know that I'm on to him and that I will not hesitate to intervene if I have to. This isn't just an issue of class, you understand. My sister is still quite young and if the Prince of Wales himself were to keep staring at her in that manner, I would treat him exactly the same. Naturally, I terrify the poor boy, (Branson that is, not the Prince of Wales). Well, good, that's what I say. He jolly well should be terrified.

5. Isis is still depressed. Papa was loath to leave her, perhaps even more so than he was to leave me, his own daughter, who just happened to have been in a _near fatal horse-riding accident_. It's nice to know where you sit in the hierarchy of your father's affections, isn't it? I refer you again to Point 2.

6. And finally, (and this is rather embarrassing), I have been having the most peculiar _dreams _lately.

You see, Matthew and I have come to a sort of unspoken agreement. We're back to our old selves again, laughing at each other and telling stupid jokes – Matthew has stopped alluding to certain things he claims were said to him in the woods whilst I was lying concuss, and in turn I have stopped nagging him to tell me what he's talking about. This is an arrangement that suits the two of us, as Matthew seems to be in a much cheerier mood and even comes to visit me after he's finished work, just to make sure I'm 'still ticking over', (as he puts it). But I would be lying if I said the whole issue wasn't eating me up inside. It seems to have led to some truly bizarre dreams.

Don't get me wrong, I've had a fair few nightmares about my riding accident. It's hard to tell how much of these dreams are memories and how much are just my own brain's malicious imaginings, especially when you take into account how much pain medication Cousin Isobel has been shovelling down my throat as of late. Often, I dream that I'm still riding Diamond, and I'm trying to tell her to slow down but she doesn't understand me. More recently my dreams seem to be about lying in the mud, unable to move, watching the sky get darker and darker.

Only last night, the dream was different. Matthew was there. He was on his hands and knees in the mud, leaning over me and saying my name again and again, shouting for someone to come help him. It sounded like his voice, but it didn't sound like his voice, if that makes any sense? He sounded choked. Panicked, even. I wanted to tell him I was alright, but I couldn't seem to get my lips working.

In my dream, Matthew was pressing his hands all over my body, checking for a pulse, or blood, or broken bones, or _something._ He was trying to be gentle but the whole thing was agony and eventually I realised that I _could _get my lips working, because then I was screaming, and Matthew started to stroke my face and whisper to me. And then he was kissing my forehead, saying such sweet things. He was telling me I needed to stay awake for just a little bit longer. He was telling me he was sorry, oh so sorry, and then he started to cry, and I couldn't bear it anymore and that's when I woke up.

It seemed so real, but there's no way to be sure. I'm not quite brave enough to ask him about it, not yet anyway. But still, I'm getting closer to the truth. The investigation continues...

* * *

**13th January 1913**

Mama and Edith have set off for London. If previous Seasons are anything to go by, they'll be gone for at least two months. Carson left with them and, sensitive to the fact that I was less-than-pleased with the current arrangements, he consoled me with the idea that I'd soon be up on my feet again and that I could maybe join the party if I felt a little better in a few weeks. It was sweet of him to try, but we both know that isn't likely. Coincidentally, I am still in a foul mood.

Mama kissed me on the cheek as she stepping into the car.

"I know it's a disappointment my dear, but we'll be back before you know it." There was desperation in her eyes though. I think secretly think Mama is just as disappointed as I am that I am missing out on husband-hunting season. After the Pamuk Incident, she wants me married off as soon as possible and she's not particularly fussy as to whom or how.

"Mama, please." Edith said from inside the car, "We'll miss our train."

Mama kissed me again, climbed onto the back seat, and closed the car door behind her.

"Oh, I almost forgot." I heard her say, and she pulled down the car window and leaned out, "Your father wants you to keep an eye on Isis whilst he's away. He's worried that she's seriously ill."

I rolled my eyes. If he's not obsessed with Matthew, he's obsessed with that idiotic dog.

"Mama, please." I said, "Isis will outlive us all."

Mama smiled. "I know dear, but I promised your father. You will take care of her, won't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so." I said, against my better judgement.

In other news, I've had the same Matthew dream two nights in a row. Always exactly as detailed before, (_Matthew on his knees, some pain, some kissing, etcetera and then I wake up_). I'm none the wiser as to what occurred that night and it's all very frustrating. To make matters worse, when Papa went to London he specifically asked Matthew to spend more time at the house 'to keep an eye on the estate whilst I'm gone'. The fact that Matthew knows nothing about running estates did not seem to deter Papa, or even Matthew for that matter. But ho hum, they're the men and they think they know best. If Papa wants to come home to a barren wasteland where his farms used to be, that's his decision.

But the real issue at the moment is that because of Papa's request, the Heir Apparent is now constantly under my feet, (or wheels as the case maybe, seeing as I'm still confined to this wheelchair). It's horribly embarrassing after the dreams I've been having, and to top it all off I seem to be having difficulty pretending that everything is normal. This morning, for example. After waving off Edith and Mama, I settled down in the library with some tea and in strolls Matthew with some paperwork he just _urgently_ needed to get done. This would have been fine and dandy, except I couldn't seem to think of two words to say to him and, because I am confined to this bloody monstrosity, I couldn't just get up and leave the room. I had to sit there and blush for over an hour and suffer the indignity of having Matthew ask me how I was feeling every five minutes.

All in all, not a good day.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Isis is fine.

* * *

**14th January 1913**

Day Two of The Season, (and yes, I'm still sulking).

Granny is staying with us for the foreseeable future, to act as a guardian in the absence of our parents and to stop us from behaving in an unsuitable or licentious manner. I think that ship has long since sailed, but never mind. I like having Granny around.

Whilst the rest of the family have gone, Sybil is using this opportunity to dress Gwen up like a doll and teach her how to behave during a job interview.

"Sybil, darling," I said, "have _you_ ever even had a job interview?"

Sybil just glared at me. "If you're not going to be helpful Mary, I think you should just leave."

"It just seems like if you've never had a job interview, than maybe you shouldn't be the one to teach Gwen."

Sybil kept glaring. Gwen squirmed and looked suitably awkward. I think they wanted me to leave.

"And besides," I said, "if you wanted advice about getting employment, surely it would be better to ask Cousin Matthew. He's the only one of us that has actually ever had a job."

"Oh, for god's sake." Sybil snapped, "Would you shut up about Cousin Matthew? That's the fourth time you've mentioned his name this morning."

"No it isn't." I said. "Is it?"

"Yes, it jolly well is. Now if you're not going to help us, you can leave."

Well, I couldn't exactly leave, not unless somebody pushed me. But I made sure I didn't mention the M Word for the rest of the day. Honestly, Sybil is simply monstrous when she's in a bad mood.

* * *

**18th January 1913**

I'm declaring a state of emergency. My necklace is missing.

Not just any necklace._ The _necklace. The one Matthew brought me for Christmas. I last had it on Sunday, the night before Mama and Edith went to London. I swear I put it back in its little box in the drawer, but when I looked for it last night the box was empty. Oh god, I really am losing my marbles. If Matthew finds out he'll be so hurt. I simply have to find it.

I turned my bedroom upside down this morning looking for it, but to no avail. I asked Anna, I asked Mrs Hughes, I asked Sybil, but nobody knew where the necklace had got to. I've been worrying about it all morning. I couldn't even manage a crumb of breakfast, and as soon as Sybil disappeared off to post a letter in the village, I did the only thing that I could think of to do.

I stood up out of the wheelchair, and began to pace.

It hurt quite a bit and all my joints were stiff, and I kept having to sit down for a little rest now and again, but there's nothing like a good pace when you're in a situation like this. I needed to move. I needed to _think._ Matthew was going to find out. He was going to find out and he would be so upset with me, and I wasn't sure I was going to be able to talk him round.

Oh god, I loved that little necklace.

As I was playing through all the ideas in my head, there was a short knock on the drawing room door and before I had a chance to answer, the door swung open and in strolled the man in question. I stopped in my tracks, trying not to look like a child with their hand caught in the biscuit tin. Matthew stared at me, dumbly.

"Oh god Mary, why didn't you tell me?" he said and my heart sunk. Oh god, he knew. How did he know? Did Sybil tell him?

But something wasn't quite right. He didn't sound angry. He sounded... delighted? And in a few long strides he had crossed the floor and for a moment it looked like he was going to pick me up and swing me about the room, but he didn't. He just stood in front of me, grinning like an idiot.

"Mary, why didn't you tell me you could stand up? Look at you!"

And I nearly laughed with the relief of it. I nearly laughed, and I nearly cried. I lost the necklace he gave me, and I forgot what we talked about in the woods, and then of course there's the whole 'Pamuk Incident' to consider. I'm more of a disappointment to Matthew than he'll ever know. When I didn't immediately jump for joy, Matthew grew concerned.

"You're not in pain are you?" He took me by the arm and led me back to the wheelchair. _The wheelchair._ I hate that thing with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

"No," I said, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to ruin your happy moment."

"Don't be silly. Come along. Tell your Cousin Matthew about what's bothering you."

He took a seat on the couch opposite me and watched me with such intense interest that for a horrifying moment I even considered telling him the truth. What exactly did I think I was going to say? 'Oh, good morning Matthew. I'm just upset because I lost that necklace you gave me. I have no idea what I did with it. Frankly, I was quite tipsy and for all I know I dropped it somewhere in the house and one of the housemaids has found it and pocketed it. Oh, and by the way, I have had immoral liaisons with a turkish diplomat. So immoral, in fact, that it quite possibly killed him.' I came to my senses fairly quickly. I had only just got Matthew to start talking to me again, and things were awkward enough with my strange dreams hanging over my head without me complicating matters further. Matthew wasn't going to stop staring at me until I told him the truth, so I made a point of sighing dramatically and throwing my hands in the air.

"Edith. Edith is bothering me." I said, and I was very proud of myself because I didn't have to lie.

Matthew smiled. "Edith isn't even here."

"No," I said, "she's in London enjoying the Season. Where I should be."

Matthew frowned. "I hadn't thought of that. You're a debutante."

"Well, yes." I said, a little surprised that he hadn't considered this before now, "Although nowadays I'm not so much a 'debut' as I am an 'encore'."

My little joke fell flat. I could see all the little wheels and cogs of insecurity whirl in Matthew mind.

"You should be at balls and masquerades, drinking champagne and dancing with rich, eligible idiots."

"Yes," I said, "I should be. I miss the lights and the dresses and the... the..." I groped for the right words. And, as per usual, the words that came to mind fell tragically short. "Oh Matthew, I just miss the fizz of it all. The excitement."

"And the rich, eligible idiots?" he teased.

I smiled, despite myself, "I have my own rich, eligible idiot."

The corners of his mouth quirked up and it was wonderful. Matthew smiled, and my whole body resonated like a tuning fork. What the hell is happening to me? I don't...? I don't have a crush on Matthew Crawley, do I?

OH GOD. DO I?

"Well," Matthew said cheerily, "I'm not actually rich and I won't be for a very long time, but I certainly am an idiot and I'm quite, quite eligible."

Something about the way his voice dipped when he said that last part made my entire body sing. Oh god, I thought. It is a crush. Why didn't I see it before? And then I tried to comfort myself by pointing out that it was_ only _a crush, a very tiny crush, and that I've had many crushes before and they've always come to nothing, so I really shouldn't have too much to worry about. It wasn't like I was in love with the idiot. And in my defence, I've been confined to Downton Abbey for a very long time and there does seem to be a surfeit of attractive gentlemen around these parts.

But still, a crush. _How inconvenient. _

I thought the best way forward was to make a neutral comment, something about the ball gowns or dancing or something innocuous about the Season, but thankfully I was saved by Granny. She barged her way into the drawing room with her usual amount of tact, (none), and then realising she had actually intruded on Matthew and I having some private time together, she proceeded to try and come up with an excuse about leaving us alone again. But it was no use. Matthew stood up and offered her his seat.

"I really ought to be going anyway, Cousin Violet." he said graciously. And then to me, "I'm so glad you're up and walking again. Now I know you can move, I want a promise from you that the next ball you go to, you'll save the first dance for me."

Attending a debutante ball did not seem like the sort of thing that Matthew Crawley would be interested in, heir to the Grantham fortune or not, so I agreed, safe in the knowledge that he would have forgotten this promise by the time he got back to Crawley House. Poor Granny looked quite put out. She's determined to make a match out of us.

I've got more important things to worry about. Like where on earth did I put that necklace?

* * *

**19th January 1913**

I've found the necklace. That is to say, I haven't found it exactly but somebody has informed me of its whereabouts and suddenly it all makes perfect sense. On a related note, Edith is now dead to me.

"She only meant to borrow it." Sybil was saying. Forget Matthew, Sybil is the REAL solicitor in this family. She's always trying to defend someone, even if they're quite obviously guilty, (like Edith), and deserve the death penalty, (like Edith).

It was Granny who had informed me. I don't know why I hadn't thought to ask her earlier. Granny has a memory like a steel trap. In the end, it took a moment of sheer desperation for me to ask Granny if she had seen my little silver necklace with the pearl on it and she had. In fact, not only had she seen it, but Edith had been wearing it when Granny said goodbye to her on the morning she left for London. I was horrified.

I immediately went upstairs and took inventory of my entire wardrobe. Not just the necklace, but my green shoes were missing, two of my favourite dresses and a set of diamond earrings. I knew that Mama was quite used to Edith pilfering through my things and probably wouldn't have scolded her too strenuously, because in my mother's mind she just wants us all married off as soon as possible and if that means Edith has to break into her sister's bedroom and steal her shoes then so be it. I mean, I'm furious about the other things being stolen of course, but the necklace has really infuriated me. That was a present from Matthew. That should mean something. The idea of her wearing it is practically blasphemy.

I don't want to talk about Matthew right now. I am putting an embargo on all Matthew-related topics. I have decided to ween myself off this ridiculous little crush, and I will start by ceasing talking about, thinking about and especially writing about Matthew and any topics pertaining to Matthew. Starting from now.

* * *

**21st January 1913**

Matthew's up to something and he won't say what. I am livid. How dare he keep secrets from me!

I'll write more later.

* * *

**23rd January 1913**

I caught Matthew whispering to Mrs Hughes earlier, and when they saw I was approaching they both stopped talking and just stared at me, like they were waiting for me to go away.

Our conversation went like this:

**Me:** Good Afternoon.

**Matthew:** Oh... hello.

**Me:** How are you both this morning?

**Matthew:** Fine.

**Mrs Hughes:** Very well, milady.

**Me:** Is something the matter?

**Both:** No!

_Awkward silence._

**Me:** Alright. I suppose I better be off then.

**Matthew:** Bye!

So the evidence is clear. There is something Matthew quite clearly doesn't want me to find out. I do not like this idea. I like it even less, considering he is now roping the house staff into his little subterfuge. Wait, he's supposed to be managing the estate, could that have something to do with it? Has he burned down the cottages or something? Embezzled thousands of pounds? Blighted the livestock, somehow? I'm on to you, Crawley.

In other news, Isis is still acting strangely. She won't eat her normal food, but she's taken to stealing scrambled eggs off my breakfast plate when she thinks I'm not looking. And she's so lazy... Matthew says he can't get any work done, because she's constantly trying to wrap around his legs and fall asleep. So there you have it. It's not just me, she's trying the patience of even the sainted Matthew Crawley now. And she's starting to get fat. Papa keeps writing to me, begging for updates on her health. He wants to know, is she still depressed? I don't know, Papa. Do dogs even get depressed? If he keeps asking, I'm going to be the one who's depressed.

* * *

**26th January 1913**

Despite myself, I find I'm rather enjoying taking a sabbatical from 'The Season'.

We've had a second cold snap of winter here at Downton and a good couple of feet of snow has fallen and settled across the countryside. I mean, really. It's nearly February. This is a fine contrast to the fair weather we had a couple of weeks ago. The real annoyance is that I'm finally upright and mobile, but Cousin Isobel has expressly forbidden me from going outside in case I slip on the ice. And even if I did venture into the great outdoors, I can only just about walk anywhere, let alone go ice skating or have a snowball fight or anything else that might result in fun.

Up until now, reading has been my only comfort whilst I've been under house arrest. Now that I'm more active, I find I can make my own entertainment. My chief source of amusement right now is playing practical jokes on Sybil. Of course, Granny thinks I've gone mad. I'm completely unrepentant.

When Sybil was a little girl she used to have this toy bear she called 'Peter'. Sybil love Peter intensely. It was a very rare occasion that Sybil would consent to go somewhere or do something and leave Peter behind. So you could imagine when one morning Sybil left the bear to go have her first horse-riding lesson, she was nearly beside herself with grief when she got back and discovered Peter was missing. You can also imagine her surprise when she came downstairs for lunch a couple of hours later, and Peter had beaten her to the dining room. Sitting on Papa's chair, wearing Papa's glasses and seemingly reading a newspaper, Peter didn't seem to have missed Sybil nearly as much as she had missed him. In contrast to her earlier hysterics, Sybil started to howl with laughter. To her five year old mind, these was the pinnacle of comedy - a toy bear reading a newspaper. She insisted that Peter remain sitting at the head of the table for the rest of lunch and poor Papa has to sit somewhere else.

It became a running joke with Sybil and me - a cornerstone of our childhood. Periodically Peter would go missing, and turn up in the most extraordinary places. Sometimes he'd go fishing. He'd be in the library. He'd sit in Carson's office and approve the wine lists. It never ceased to be funny, even as we got older. Even a few days ago, after I spent nearly an hour getting William to dig old Peter out of the attic, it still had me in stitches. The look on Sybil's face when she came down to breakfast and saw that old bear sitting at the head of the table again - I thought she was going to cry with laughter. We laughed so long and so hard that Granny started to get worried.

So for the past few days, Sybil and I have been taking it in turns to plant Peter around the house. Can you imagine Matthew's surprise when he arrived last night to look over the books and found a bear sitting at the desk and pouring over the accounts? He saw the funny side, I think. But mostly he saw the 'Mary and Sybil should be in a madhouse' side. I discussed the matter with him, and I've let Matthew know that unfortunately Peter cannot be retired until the snow has melted and Sybil and I can return to more conventional methods of entertaining ourselves.

See? Who needs a London Season. I'm perfectly capable of making my own amusement.

* * *

**28th January 1913**

Peter continues on his travels, unabated. Even Matthew is starting to get in the spirit of things. He hid the bear in a storage cupboard in Crawley House yesterday. When Molesley went to fetch some bed linen, the bear fell out onto his head and the poor man let out a very unMolesley-like scream. Sybil and I weren't there to enjoy it of course, but Matthew regaled us with the telling of that story over dinner.

"_Really_ Matthew," said Cousin Isobel, whose forkful of roast pork was hovering midair, "how old are you? That's not at all funny."

Sybil and I nodded soberly. We were all adults at that dinner table. Still, Sybil and I were certainly having a very hard time stifling our smirks and I thought I was going to have to stuff a napkin into my mouth to stop from laughing outright.

"They've been like this all week," bemoaned Granny, "I'm starting to dispair. They need some social entertainment, something to keep them out of trouble."

"Well, I think it's ridiculous." Isobel said, "Poor Molesley. He had the fright of his life."

I looked at Matthew, who was trying without success to stop the corners of his mouth from twitching. That did it for me. I started howling with laughter and had to excuse myself from the table. Matthew and Sybil had to excuse themselves shortly after, and we sat by the fireplace and talked all evening, telling stories about our childhoods and games we used to play. It was a nice evening.

Cousin Isobel was still very cross with us, but I couldn't bring myself to be sorry. Not even a little bit.

* * *

**29th January 1913**

Speaking of Matthew and Sybil...

Isis and I spent most of the afternoon sitting at the window in the library, watching Matthew and Sybil rolling a giant snowman. It's been odd to see Matthew act so carefree and childish lately. The Matthew I'm used to is Matthew the Solicitor. Matthew the Heir. Matthew the Adversary.

I watched as Sybil ran out to join him, carrying a small bundle of items in her arms. She went to dress the snowman herself, but Matthew smacked her hands away with genuine irritation. I felt a little sad, that they got to enjoy this moment without me. I had to remind myself that I was supposed to be weaning myself off Matthew Crawley, and that the more time he spent without me the better.

I watched them work from the safety of the library window. They moved quickly. Matthew slipped and fell backwards, to which an unsympathetic Sybil laughed and tried to help him up. Together, they built a reasonable-looking snowman. All I could think of was that moment a few days ago, when Matthew and Mrs Hughes were whispering about something. Was Matthew keeping a secret from me? I thought about those dreams I'd been having. I thought about Matthew almost kissing me.

He _did_ almost kiss me, didn't he?

Fully-dressed, the snowman was quite impressive. He had a white bow tie, a rather smart looking set of tails, two black buttons for eyes and what looked like a couple of hair combs for big, bushy eyebrows. Belatedly, I realised that the snowman had been built in such a way that it was facing me. No, not just facing me, it was staring right at me. And then I saw Matthew was waving at me, and I realised that he must have known I had been watching them all along, and I felt a little better.

I rang for some hot chocolate, and the two miscreants soon joined me in the library, stamping snow all over the carpets and safe in the knowledge that no one was home to reprimand them for it. Matthew seized at an empty cup and started to cup himself some chocolate.

"Ah, hot chocolate! Mary, you are a genius!" He said.

"I know." I smiled, "I thought you two deserved a little treat after being so hard at work."

Sybil collapsed on the couch. I noticed she decided to sit closest to me, and not Matthew. It irritated me that this made me feel a bit better. She leaned her head against my shoulder, exhausted.

"Did you like him, Mary?"

She said this when I had a mouthful of chocolate and I nearly choked. Liked who, Matthew? Was it obvious? I swallowed hard, and asked her what she was talking about, as nonchalantly as I could.

"Why, our snowman of course. We built him to cheer you up."

"Well, not really a snowman." Matthew interjected. "He's a snowbutler. Because we know how much you're missing Carson."

Sybil grinned, "That's right! We built a SnowCarson!"

I rolled my eyes. "What use is a SnowCarson, if there's no SnowMary for him to wait on?"

Matthew grinned, "Do you want a SnowMary? I can build you a SnowMary."

"I can't." Sybil sighed, closing her eyes, "I'm absolutely exhausted." And then, she heroically managed to launch herself to her feet, declared she was going to find Mrs Hughes and left the room.

"So," Matthew said, his eyes still alight with childish mischief, "do you want a SnowMary?"

"No," I said, sipping my drink, "She'd be too lonely by herself. If you built a SnowMary, you'd have to build a SnowMatthew as well." and then, panicking, I added, "And a SnowSybil." There. That was more neutral. Crisis averted.

There was something about the way Matthew was smirking that I didn't quite trust. He moved a little closer to me on the couch. "But you already have a Matthew."

My smile was nervous. No, my smile was bloody terrified. I said, "Yes, but you're not made of snow."

Matthew edged closer still, until he was occupying Sybil's old seat. He didn't just smile, he grinned.

"Oh," he said, "but I'm just covered in snow. See?"

And with that, he picked my hand up and touched it to his hair. There were still large, thick flakes of snow melting and turning his blonde hair into a sweet, lightish brown. His face was cold and damp against the heat of my hand. We stayed like that for a moment, him pressing his face into my palm and me, excited and terrified and utterly unable to move. He made no attempt to kiss me, no attempt to move closer. I snatched my hand back. I desperately wanted to find the right words, but I couldn't.

"So you are." I said, oddly. I could hear my own pulse hammering away in my ears and I didn't realise I had been holding my breath until Sybil crashed through the door again and flung herself onto the nearest armchair.

"I've ordered some biscuits," She said, oblivious to my emotional turmoil.

Matthew grinned. "Another great idea! Don't you think so, Mary?"

I smiled wanly, but of course my mind was otherwise engaged. Why would he have done that if he had no intention of kissing me? I mean, not that I want him to kiss me. But _still._ What is Matthew up to? What secrets is he hiding?

My investigations continue.


	12. Chapter 12

_Good news, you guys! I've managed to go an entire week without breaking my laptop.__ This has got to be a personal best. _

_Anyway, enough whittering from me. Thank you all for your wonderful feedback and please remember that I still accept bribes. _

* * *

**29th January 1913**

Today has been my first real day of freedom! I've finally been allowed to leave the house. Sybil has spent all morning trying to persuade me to go to some boring meeting given by the local Labour candidate, but for me there was really no competition. I knew exactly where I wanted to go first.

I wasn't much in the mood for breakfast, so I took a dry piece of toast with me on the way to the stables. Of course, Sybil argued with me all the way there.

"I thought you wanted to leave the house?"

"Darling," I said, "I_ have_ left the house." I made a point of taking a deep breath of country air to prove my point.

"This hardly counts." Sybil said as we walked past one of the paddocks. "You're not even leaving the grounds."

But I was hardly listening. I was scrutinising the fields, looking for Diamond. I could see Papa's horse, Anubis, parading about the place. Anubis, you should know, is part-Friesian and part-Arab, and takes great pleasure in terrorising the other horses. He's an absolute monster.

Not far from where Anubis was preening, Mama's horse seemed to be falling asleep on her feet. Mama's horse is called Hathor, which is ironic really, because she's easily the fattest and the laziest of all the horses, so naming her after the goddess of love and beauty is a joke so cruel that it could only be traced back to Granny.

Edith and Sybil's horses must have been locked up in the stables – although if you're interested, Edith's horse is aptly named after Apophis, the serpent god and Sybil's horse, (which is a tiny little thing but I know it's at least partly Danish Warmblood), is named for Thoth, the god of wisdom. Papa had tried to convince me that my horse was called Sekhmet, but this was when I was nine years old, and I had been waiting my entire life for a pony of my own, so poor Papa didn't really get a say in the matter. I had decided from a very early age that whenever I got a horse, she was going to be called Diamond.

I've always liked diamonds.

"I don't see her." I said to Sybil.

"Don't sound so anxious. I'm sure she's trotting around here somewhere."

And then there she was. Lynch was leading her out to one of the fields and I realised, belatedly, that he must have been exercising her, because with my recent incarceration there wasn't really anyone around who could ride her. I almost went to approach her but Diamond saw me first and trotted over to greet me, dragging Lynch along with her.

It was the first time I'd seen her since the accident. I stroked her nose and tried my best to reassure her that I wasn't angry. My poor Diamond. She sighed and whinnied and in the end it was quite a tearful reunion. The accident wasn't her fault, after all. Diamond would never mean to hurt me.

"That's my good girl." I whispered, "Poor darling. It's alright."

Sybil had been silent this whole time, but now she laughed.

"Did you just call her _'darling'?_"

This remark made me bristle. "Well, she is a darling. Poor thing. She must have been so worried."

Sybil just shook her head.

"Yes, well that _darling,_" she pointed accusingly at Diamond, "threw you into the dirt and knocked you unconscious. It was all we could do not to let Papa sell her for glue."

"Diamond didn't mean it. Did you, lovely?"

Sybil, realising that I wasn't about to abandon my horse any time soon, climbed up on the nearest wooden fence and made herself comfortable. Smoothing her skirts, she said, "You could have been killed, Mary."

I rolled my eyes, "Well, I wasn't. So leave her alone."

Honestly, Sybil can be such a wet blanket when she wants to be. I went to tell her so, but saw something out of the corner of my eye that distracted me. A figure, peering around the corner of the barn, watching Sybil and I as we were talking. I turned swiftly to get a better look, but the figure disappeared. I had only caught a glimpse, but there was no mistaking what I had seen.

"What?" said Sybil, "What is it?"

"Nothing." I said, but it wasn't nothing. It was that chauffeur again, watching Sybil. I really ought to do something about Branson.

* * *

**1st February 1913**

Joy of joys, we have received a letter from Edith.

She tells me she is enjoying the Season and wishes very much that we were with her, (although I believe this remark was mostly directed at Sybil). She would also like us to know that she's making excellent progress with Evelyn Napier.

I'll just let that sink in for a minute.

Evelyn Napier... _and my sister._

I haven't spoken to Evelyn Napier since the Pamuk Incident. Even back in the days when I was engaged to Patrick, Mr Napier and I were quite good friends. But now I suspect he knows more about Pamuk's death than he is willing to let on. Certainly his behaviour towards me has changed, and if in the days following Pamuk's death Mama had trouble meeting my eye, Mr Napier certainly didn't. He watched me closely. I know he has suspicions, but I also know he's too much of a gentleman to voice them.

So, even if you ignore the fact that the idea of Edith one day becoming a Viscountess makes me physically sick, an alliance between her and Mr Napier would still be disastrous for me. Edith has already been asking too many questions about Kemal Pamuk and up until now, Mama has managed to fend her off. Can you imagine them as man and wife? Mr and Mrs Evelyn Napier? Mrs Edith Napier? God help me.

Edith finished the letter by sending us her love and letting us know that she'd keep us abreast of any exciting news from London.

I am literally sick with rage.

* * *

**2nd February 1913**

Today I've only been allowed to leave the house in the company of Granny, who insisted that we go to Crawley House to take tea with Cousin Isobel. Granny tried to convince me that she did this out of a sense of beneficent charity on my behalf.

"Mary, my dear." she said, "I can see you're practically climbing the walls. It's about time you started to leave the house again." The reality of the situation is that the practical jokes Sybil and I have been playing on each other have escalated to such an extent, that everyone in the house is desperate to separate us. I won't go into details, but Gwen spent most of this morning cleaning flour out of one of the persian rugs in morning room. Sybil's fault, obviously.

So I found myself sitting in Cousin Isobel's blue day room, sipping tea and staring at a hideous portrait of some bearded man that hangs above the fireplace. Isobel tells me that this was her great grandfather, and he invented forceps or scalpels or something to do with surgery. She sounds exceedingly proud of this fact. The conversation is so boring, I start to long for the days when I was lying in bed with my leg broken.

And whilst I was meditating on the latest Matthew-related dream I had, (I really need to do something about these dreams. The latest one had absolutely_ nothing_ to do with my riding accident. And they're starting to get _mortifyingly _vivid. Phew!), Cousin Isobel and Granny kept talking. Considering that they claim to hate each other so much, whenever they enter into a conversation Isobel and Granny seldom give anyone else a chance to offer an opinion. They seemed to be taking it in turns, breathing in relays. When they started discussing their plans for the church flower garden in the Spring, I was overcome with this sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to pick up a saucer and smash it over someone's head. Granny's. Isobel's. Mine._ Anyone's._ Just please, god, anything to stop them talking about petunias.

Just when I thought all hope was lost, there was the unmistakable noise of someone walking up the garden path and opening the front door. I'd recognise those footsteps anywhere. My heart started to race quite irrationally and I had to remind myself, this was only Matthew. I've seem Matthew a thousand times. There is nothing special about Matthew.

('There is nothing special about Matthew' has become my new motto. I'm thinking about getting it incorporated into the Grantham Coat of Arms. _"Nihil est specialis circa Matthaeum"). _

"Mother!" he called from the hallway, "We've adjourned for the day. I thought I'd use this opportunity to call on Mrs Hughes and ask her if she's got it sorted."

Cousin Isobel looked towards the door leading into the hallway, swallowing hard. She looked at me with something akin to shock written on her face and then she looked back towards the door again.

She placed her empty teacup on the sidetable and called out, "Oh don't worry about that, Matthew. I don't think we need Mrs Hughes' help after all. Molesley can manage fine here without her, can't you Molesley?"

She said it with such a level tone of voice, each word pronounced with such precision that she could have been reading the words off a script. That, coupled with the fact that Molesley clearly didn't have a clue what she was talking about, caused Granny and I to exchange a look.

"What are you talking about, Mother?" said Matthew, as he strolled into the room, "I'm not talking about Molesley, I'm talking about-..." he stopped when he saw me sitting opposite his mother, and when he saw Granny was also in the room he nearly baulked entirely.

"Go on, Matthew dear," said Granny sweetly, "what were you talking about?"

He bit his lip. "Hmm?" was all he could manage.

Granny said, with studied patience. "You were going to talk to Mrs Hughes. She was helping you with something, was she not?"

Matthew and his Mother exchanged a terrified look.

"Oh," said Matthew, "it was nothing. She was just helping Molesley out until we could hire more staff. Isn't that right, Molesley?"

Molesley, who seemed to be frozen holding a plate full of finger sandwiches, looked absolutely horrified at the suggestion that he needed help running an establishment. His eyes flicked between Cousin Isobel and Matthew like the pair of them had gone mad.

"If you say so, Mr Crawley." he said.

"Ah," said Granny, "but I thought I heard you say just now that you _weren't _talking about Molesley?"

Matthew grabbed a scone and shoved the whole thing into his mouth, evidently not trusting himself to make anymore noises.

"You must have been mistaken," said Isobel, "that's not what I heard. I thought I heard Matthew say that was exactly what he was talking about."

I seemed to have detached myself from the conversation at this point. An errant smear of butter had fixed itself on Matthew's top lip, and I'm not saying that I'm easily distracted, but there was something vaguely erotic about his clumsy attempts to lick his lips clean. There was even something vaguely erotic about the fact he didn't realise it was erotic. I've finally managed to admit to myself that really, in general, there was something vaguely erotic about Matthew. God help me. I'm sure most women aren't like this. Women are supposed to think pure and virginal thoughts, aren't they? They're supposed to be thinking about embroidery and kittens. Watching Matthew's lips glisten... I was most certainly not thinking about embroidery or kittens.

"_Mary._" Granny snapped. This gave my quite a shock. I nearly spilled my tea.

"Yes Granny?"

"I asked you a question."

Oh really, now? After two hours of talking about hydrangeas and _now_ they want to include me in the conversation? I kept my face as neutral as possible, but it was obvious they knew I hadn't been listening.

Granny huffed. "Who do you agree with? Me, or your Cousin Isobel?"

Oh god, they were arguing again. I followed Matthew's lead and shoved as much of a scone into my mouth as possible.

"Mary." Granny said impatiently.

"Mhh grhhhhh hhh mmmrghhh hhhh..." was about all I could manage.

Granny huffed in exasperation and turned towards Isobel. "I know what I heard."

Isobel ran a finger around the rim of her tea cup, and said innocently. "I'm sure you know what you_ think_ you heard."

Matthew's amused eyes flicked between his mother and his irate Cousin Violet. He caught me watching him and raised an eyebrow. His sardonic look seemed to say, 'Can you believe they're at it again?'

Whilst I helped myself to another cup of tea, Granny was accusing Cousin Isobel of being a socialist. She said the word 'socialist' with the same amount of vehemence and disgust as if she was calling somebody a poisoner. Isobel told Granny she was being a bigot, and I silently rolled my eyes at Matthew to let him know that this was not the first time this morning that they had been hurling insults at each other.

Whilst Granny told Cousin Isobel that she didn't come here to be insulted, (without actually rising or making any attempt to leave the house), I pointed at the teapot and mouthed the words 'Do you want a cup?' to Matthew, who in turn shook his head and pointed out of the window to his trusty bicycle. Of course, he had planned to see Mrs Hughes. I waved my hand dismissively to let him know what I thought of that idea. He should stay. Drink tea. Matthew appeared to consider it and then nodded in agreement and picked up a cup.

Whilst Isobel was rising to her feet and offering, (in what I'm sure she intended to be a polite voice), so show Granny the door, Matthew poured himself a cup of tea and Granny said something to the affect of never having been so offended in all her life. Matthew offered me a slice of madeira cake, to which I stuck out my tongue. I've never been terribly fond of madeira cake. Registering my disgust, Matthew took a ravenous bite of the cake and smirked.

I took a sip of tea to hide my amusement. This was actually quite good fun. I bet Matthew and I could have entire conversations without actually saying a word. I was just looking around the table for inspiration about what I could mime next, when Granny grabbed my arm and told me we were leaving. Our silent exchange was over. I tried not to look as irritated as I felt. Remember, I said to myself, "_Nihil est specialis circa Matthaeum"._

I placed my teacup down with deliberate slowness and took my time gathering my effects together. I was in no hurry to leave Crawley House. Granny tapped her walking stick impatiently, which I'm sorry to say, only made me move slower.

"Hurry up, Mary." She shrilled, "Branson's waiting in the car. Do you want him to die of old age?"

Well, yes, if it meant he stopped gawking at my sister, but I didn't say that to Granny. Matthew jumped to his feet.

"Let me walk you both to the car." he said cheerfully.

"Yes, alright." I said.

This was such a shock to Granny that I think she forgot for a moment that she was angry. As we all made out way out to the front of the house, Matthew and I walked behind everyone else, and as soon as he was satisfied that we were out of earshot, he turned to me and said, "So, how is Isis?"

"Never mind that." I said, "What are you and Cousin Isobel up to?"

There was no mistaking the glint in his eye.

"Why, Cousin Mary, I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it."

"It's nothing sinister, I assure you. It's a surprise, that's all. You like surprises, don't you Mary?"

I stopped as we reached the car, and folded my arms. I tried my best to look very severe.

"Not as a rule, no. I like being prepared for things. I like being in control. 'Surprises' allow for neither of these things."

Matthew shrugged, "Well, you don't get a say in the matter. Anyway, I think you'll like this surprise. It was designed with you in mind."

Granny was already sitting in the car, trying to look like she wasn't eavesdropping. Branson went to open the door for me, but Matthew beat him to it and waved him away. Taking his hand, I leant on Matthew for support as I climbed into the back and I felt the heat of his skin on mine, even through the thin fabric of my morning gloves.

"Whether I like the surprise or not," I said through clenched teeth, "I would still much rather know what it is, beforehand."

"But then it wouldn't be a surprise."

That was the point I was getting at. I shot Matthew a look.

"Don't be worried, Mary." he said, as he closed the door, "You'll find out what it is, soon enough."

But I was worried. Not worried because of the surprise per se, but of something else. Worried that I didn't seem to be acting myself at all. Worried about where these strange thoughts were taking me. I worried all the way home, and then I went upstairs and I lay on my bed, and I worried the entire afternoon away. I worried about Evelyn Napier, and I worried about Sybil and Branson, and for a while there, I even worried about Isis.

But most of all, I worried because I had already decided I was going to kiss Matthew Crawley. I worried, because I wasn't sure how I was going to go about it.


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note: First of all, I didn't get to write nearly as much as I would have liked to this week. My laptop pulled a Dan Stevens again. I mean, really. If my laptop is going to be this temperamental than I should probably just bite the bullet and buy a new one, but unfortunately I don't have the money. It turns out writing Downton Abbey fanfic doesn't actually pay that well. I wish you guys had told me. :( _

_We've __passed the 50,000 word mark. And seeing as __we're still only halfway through Series One, there's probably going to be another 50,000 before the fanfic is done, so I can only apologise in advance. __Also, a couple of you guys have tried to message me with questions, and I've tried to message you back but your profiles are set to private or something, and won't let me reply. So please don't think I'm just ignoring you, I will always try and reply to PMs. I love you guys. _

* * *

**3rd February 1913**

Oh well. So much for "_Nihil est specialis circa Matthaeum."_

I'd like to say that my plan to kiss Matthew is in full effect, but it isn't. I've been awake half of the night trying to come up with a reasonable excuse that I could present to Matthew as to why I have to kiss him, without giving him the impression that I'm interested in a romantic liaison or, god forbid, marriage.

The whole purpose of this exercise is to 'get it out of my system'. I'm sick of all these dreams I've been having. I'm sick of blushing at the slightest provocation. I think if I could just plant my lips on his, just once, I'd have satisfied my curiosity and maybe my brain will stop trying to sabotage my life and let me carry on as normal. I simply can't have a crush on Matthew Crawley. There's no future in it.

Because the thing is, it's not like Matthew and I can get married. We simply can't. I refer you to the latest edition of my list on the subject:

**Reasons Why Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley Could Not Possibly Marry: **

**1. It would be playing into Granny and Papa's hands, (there's nothing I hate worse). **

**2. The Pamuk Incident.**

**3. He already has a legion of admirers who would plot to assassinate me at the drop of a hat, (including but not limited to: Edith, Mags, that girl who works in the Butchers, Thomas and Isis). **

**4. I'm fairly certain he doesn't want to marry me, (see also his comments when we first met, re: 'they're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me...', etc). **

**5. We argue about everything. We'd kill each other in less than a week. **

**6. Can you imagine having Cousin Isobel as a Mother-in-Law? God help me.**

**7. I don't think Matthew really understands how much of a brat I am. Edith says it's actually a pathological condition. I _need_ to have everything my own way. Matthew would be much better suited to a sweet-natured, obedient wife. Someone who will agree with everything he says. Someone with an apron. Less than a year of being married to me and I guarantee you, Matthew Crawley would be climbing the walls. **

**8. I know I said I wasn't going to include this on the list, but he is MIDDLE CLASS. **

**9. He likes madeira cake. Disgusting. For that reason alone, I think he should be disinherited. **

So there you have it. I have to kiss him in order to satisfy my curiosity. I bet he kisses like a wet fish. I'll hate it, I just know I will.

But how do I go about it?

* * *

**6th February 1913**

**My attempts to kiss Matthew Crawley, (by Mary Crawley):**

**1. Trip and fall into his arms. **I tried this on Monday. Twice. On the first attempt he managed to catch me but Sybil was watching us, so there wasn't much opportunity for romance. All Matthew did was stand me upright and pat me on the shoulder. On the second attempt he wasn't even paying attention and I fell flat on my face.

**2. Feed him brandy and tried to look beguiling. **I thought this would have been my best bet. Matthew got quite squiffy, but rather than try to kiss me he was more interested in talking about the Industrial Revolution. The Industrial Revolution, I ask you! If a pretty woman is leaning heavily against your arm, what on earth could possess you to talk about water-powered silk mills?

**3. Kuss him on the cheek. **I thought this might provoke a reaction, but he didn't even bat an eye.

**4. And finally, we have today's attempt: make a picnic basket for him and I bring it to his office in Ripon. **I know, I know, a couple of cheese sandwiches were not going to make him collapse into my arms, but I was running out of ideas. He accepted the basket graciously, but was clearly annoyed that I had interrupted his working day, and I was about thirty seconds away from just kicking him in the shins and going home when he exhaled loudly, walked over to his office door and locked it.

"I wish you'd just tell me what this is all about." he said.

"I don't know what you mean." I said, innocently.

"Yes you do." he said, "You've been acting strange for a couple of days now. Is something bothering you?"

Well, yes. I was aware of being relieved that I had chosen my wide-brimmed blue hat this morning. A large hat makes it easier to mask your facial expression. I kept my tone as cool as possible as I said, "No, of course not. I wasn't aware that a cheese sandwich was seen as a precursor to great crisis."

Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Mary, I'm grateful that you went to all this effort, truly I am, but I'm absolutely snowed under with paperwork. We're having a land dispute with Finches. It looks like I'm going to have to stay late as it is. Whatever is bothering you, I want to help, but you have to tell me what this is about."

My first instinct was to feel embarrassed. The offices of Harvell and Carter are a distinctly male environment, if you ignore the one or two rather homely-looking secretaries sitting outside in the hallway. It took a lot of insistence and throwing my weight around to get one of the gentlemen here to show me up to Mr Crawley's office, and around every corner of every hallway I was met by the incredulous stares of middle-class men with curled mustaches and cheap three-piece suits. The employees of Harvell and Carter could not have been more flabbergasted by my presence if I was half-goat. I was starting to think that maybe this whole idea was a gross misjudgment on my part.

And of course, when I start to think that I might be wrong, my next instinct is to get angry.

"Well, that's charming." I said, "I don't suppose it crossed your mind that I was trying to do something nice for you? Of course not. Why would I? I'm Mary Crawley, after all. Of course I'd have to have an _ulterior motive_."

Looking back on it, I did have an ulterior motive. However, in light of my annoyance with Matthew, I found my own hypocrisy was very easy to ignore. I began to angrily pick up the sandwiches and cakes that I had placed on his desk, and shove them back into the basket with an unnecessary amount of force. My annoyance was only exacerbated by the fact that Matthew didn't object.

Scooping the basket up, I went to storm out of the office, only to find Matthew was still leaning against the door and watching me curiously.

"I don't have all day Mary." he said calmly, "Please just tell me the truth." And then when I didn't answer, he said, "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No!"

"Then_ what?_"

I don't know what to tell you, diary. All I can say is that I had a moment of madness. It was only a brief moment, but a brief moment is all it takes. I had this overwhelming idea that maybe I could just tell Matthew what I wanted. After all, Matthew and I had been friends for quite some time – we were a peculiar sort of friends, but we seemed to understand each other quite well. Not to mention the fact that tiptoeing around the matter had gotten me nowhere, seeing as Matthew Crawley is either too quixotic or too dense to be seduced. Could it be, all I had to do to achieve my ends was to ask Matthew to kiss me? Before I had a chance to think the idea through, I felt the truth bubble up out of my throat before I could stop it.

"I think we should kiss." I said.

Matthew's response was underwhelming, to say the least. He just looked at me, eyes wide and unblinking.

"Pardon?" he said.

My words came out in a torrent. "You and I. Nothing romantic, you understand, it's just sort of a... scientific experiment. We should just try it and get it out of the way. That way we can get on with our lives."

Matthew didn't respond.

"You probably think this is very risqué, but I assure you we'll be keeping it well within the boundaries of propriety. No touching. Nothing too..." I waved my hand around in the air, looking for the right word, "...wanton. Just a quick peck, on the lips, that's all. You'd barely even notice it."

"_Now?"_ Matthew squeaked.

"No, not necessarily. We can arrange a time and place that's more convenient for you, if that's what you'd prefer."

I couldn't tell if Matthew wanted to burst out laughing or burst into tears.

"Listen to you." he said, "You should have been a solicitor."

I know he meant it as a compliment, but every word he said that wasn't 'yes' grated on me. Belatedly, it occurred to me that maybe Matthew didn't want to try kissing me, and I could feel my face get quite red. Oh god, why didn't I think of this before I opened my big mouth? I knew it was terribly vain, but I honestly thought that Matthew would be amenable to the idea. No, I was sure of it. I could have sworn he'd tried to kiss me once, on the bench outside the house. Now he was just staring at me, his mouth hanging open, looking for all the world like I'd just smacked him across the face. I felt like such an idiot.

He made no movement towards me, but he didn't open the window and jump to his death either, so I suppose that was something.

With a sense of dignity and decorum that has been instilled in me from a very early age, I graciously raised one hand, as if to silence him.

"You're right." I said, "It was a ridiculous idea. Just a whim, really. You know what I'm like, always burning with curiosity. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell my father."

I took a small step forward as a hint for him to move out of the way of the door, but he didn't. He seemed to be frozen where he was standing, watching me with wide blue eyes. As always, my gaze seemed to fixate on his mouth, as his tongue darted out to run unconsciously along his dry lips. It was enough to make my skin flush and I could have cried then and there. I wanted to kiss him but he didn't want to kiss me back, and you'd think the mortification and rejection might have cooled my ardour, but apparently not. If he kept licking his lips, I thought I might just kiss him anyway, whether he liked it or not.

I'm sure... no, I'm absolutely _certain_ that most women don't have thoughts like this. I'm such a fallen woman. Maybe I should look into joining a nunnery?

Eventually, I said, "If you'll excuse me, I'll let you get back to work now."

Matthew blinked, seemed to shake himself out of it, and then jumped out of the way of the door. I left the building with my head held high, and even managed to hold in my tears until after Branson drove me home and I was absconded safely in my bedroom. When Sybil asked what was wrong, I told her I wished I was in London.

Which, when you think about it, is not really a lie.

* * *

**7th February 1913**

As if my mortification was not complete, Granny had invited the Crawleys over for dinner. I couldn't quite muster up the courage to make polite conversation, and Matthew was still seemed to be in some kind of stupor. He didn't talk much, just stared at me from across the table with big, owl-like eyes. I wondered if he'd stayed like that for the past twenty-four hours. I wondered if he was ever going to snap out of it.

It was left to Granny and Sybil to carry the brunt of the conversation.

"Mary, what's wrong with you? You're not ill or something, are you?" said Granny.

It took a moment for her words to register.

"I'm fine, Granny." I said, as cheerfully as I could.

"But you've hardly touched your dessert."

I looked at the apple tart in front of me. I'd stabbed at it enough times, but I couldn't quite bring myself to eat it.

"I'm not very hungry." I said, finally.

"You are pale." said Cousin Isobel, hopefully.

"I'm_ fine,_ thank you."

Despite himself, Matthew chuckled.

"Leave her alone, Mother. I think she's had enough of your nursing."

Isobel harrumphed, but didn't pursue the matter. Eventually dinner was over and, seeing as Matthew was the only gentleman at home whilst the rest of the household was gallivanting around London, we didn't see the need to stand on ceremony and leave him alone in the dining room whilst the ladies retired. Matthew following us out into the hallway and as we all headed towards the saloon, I felt his hand touch my wrist.

I looked at him. He seemed very serious. I slowed my pace to match his, and together we let the rest of the party overtake us, until we were quite sure we wouldn't be overheard.

"I'm sorry about yesterday." said Matthew, "You took me a bit by surprise."

Oh god, please don't let him apologise. I think I could've handled anything right then, except an apology.

"Forget about it." I said, "I already have. Did you have a nice day at work?"

Matthew didn't seem to hear my question. His fingers tightened around my wrist and he pulled me to a stop next to him.

"The thing is," he said, watching the others disappear into the saloon, "I've been thinking. _Now."_

I looked around and we were alone in the main hallway. Just me, Matthew and some truly hideous Belgian tapestries. High above us, a portrait of the fourth earl disapproved of everything.

"_'Now'_, what?" I said.

"Yesterday you said I could pick a time and place that was more convenient for me. I pick _now._"

"_Now?!_" I said. 'Now' was neither a convenient time, nor a convenient place, but Matthew was already moving closer. I took a couple of steps backwards and found myself pressed against one of the stone pillars. For a minute there, I had difficulty catching my breath, and then Matthew's mouth descended onto mine, and my whole universe seemed to concertina in all directions. Softly but urgently, his lips brushed against mine, and it all seemed to happen so fast that at first I couldn't even respond. I stood there, letting his hands trace lazy circles up and down my bare arms, until I thought I was going to burn up. And then I moved my lips against his, not really sure of what I was doing, and Matthew growled, pressing his body into mine and kissing me harder. It felt so very odd. It felt so very wonderful. It was nothing like I expected.

"Milady?" came Thomas' voice.

With a hard shove, Matthew found himself colliding with another pillar.

Thomas' face appeared not two seconds later, regarding the two of us suspiciously.

"Excuse me, milady." he said haughtily, "The Dowager Countess was wondering where the two of you had got to."

"Thank you Thomas." I said, breathlessly, "Mr Crawley and I were just talking. We'll be right in."

A raised eyebrow from Thomas told me he didn't believe a word of what I said, but he had enough good sense not to question it. What is it about Thomas, that he seems to always get in the way of Matthew and I? Maybe I should see if I can get him fired. Or better yet, deported. Thomas turned to go, leaving Matthew and I to right ourselves before we could enter the saloon.

I turned to Matthew. His lips were pink and swollen and his blonde hair, normally so well styled, was sticking up at odd angles. Gosh, I thought, did I do that? I could hardly remember.

"Well," he smiled, "How was that for a scientific experiment?"

"I thought you weren't keen on the idea." I said, and my voice came out much throatier than I would have liked. Matthew leaned closer, pressing tiny kisses along my jaw line and causing me to shiver.

"Oh god Mary, kissing you is all I ever think about." And before I muster up any kind of response, he pulled away and whispered, "You can kiss me anytime. You don't have to ask." And then, in a unnervingly cheery tone of voice, "Shall we go in?"

The rest of the evening was uneventful, but even if the roof had caved in I doubt I would have noticed. More than once Sybil had to repeat what she'd just said to me, and on the other side of the room, Matthew sat quite happily conversing with Granny and Isobel. He seemed to be completely unaffected by it all. Occasionally I would look up and catch him smiling at me and my heart would stop. So I suppose you could say the experiment was a bit of a failure. Matthew Crawley was supposed to be a wet fish.

Even now, I can still feel the pressure of his lips against mine.

* * *

_To be continued... _

_Next Chapter: Matthew's big surprise._


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's Note: I know, I know, I'm sorry. I didn't update on Sunday and, truth be told, this chapter is not as long as it could be. I was going to make up some long-winded excuse about how my laptop broke again or the dog ate my fanfic, but I'm a crap liar. The truth is that real life got in the way last week. We all know that real life sucks, and wherever possible I try not to let it intervere with my smut. I mean writing. But anyway, here's Chapter 14... _

* * *

**10th February 1913**

I was awoken this morning by Sybil knocking on my bedroom door. We've received a letter from Mama – apparently Papa has decided that the rest of the family are all to leave London and come back to Downton early. Mama didn't give any specific reason as to why, although she did happen to mention that _'Edith did not get as many invites as she would have liked'._

"That can't be all." I said, sitting up in bed. I ran a tired hand over my face. "A lack of social invitations would not deter Mama. She's hell-bent on getting us all married."

Sybil was perched at the end of the bed, studying the letter.

"That's all it says. Other than that, she says that they've had 'a very enjoyable Season'."

"Well," I grumbled, "I'm glad someone has."

Sybil smiled sympathetically.

"Oh come on, it's not been that bad, has it? You're recovered now, and Matthew's been trying very hard to keep us entertained. I've had jolly good fun."

She was right, I suppose. I've been complaining for weeks but the truth is I have enjoyed my time alone at Downton. I couldn't quite bring myself to tell Sybil the lengths Matthew has gone to in order to keep me entertained, or, in fact, the real reason why he's been strolling about the grounds looking very pleased with himself the past couple of days.

Oh god, the issue of Matthew. I'm still not sure what to do about that. I've opted not to think about it. I've only just discovered I can do that. Something unpleasant happening in your life? Simply don't think about it. It's marvelous, actually. I've been not thinking about Matthew for nearly forty-two hours now.

I couldn't bring myself to think of a response, so all I could do was sigh. Sybil reached out and touched my hand.

"There's always next year." she said.

* * *

**11th February 1913**

God in heaven, when did Isis get so fat? What the hell are we feeding this dog? She can't even stand up now. She just lies on the rug in the library, wheezing. She doesn't look at all herself. Maybe she really is ill? Oh god, if she is really ill, Papa is going to kill me. I did promise I'd look after her.

In other news, Matthew has become simply unbearable. He seems to be everywhere. If Cousin Isobel joins us for tea, he's there. If I go for a walk in the village, he's there. I visit Diamond in the stables, oh what a surprise, Matthew is there. I mean for god's sake Matthew, you don't even LIKE riding. And what makes the whole situation absolutely untenable is the fact that he won't stop smiling. Oh god, but he looks pleased with himself. I want to wipe that stupid smile off his smug little face.

And do you know what really, really irritates me? Me. I'm starting to irritate myself. I irritate myself because despite my near-constant state of irritation with Matthew Crawley, there is also that certain frisson, an undefinible excitement that keeps eating away at me. I find myself thinking impossible thoughts. I find myself thinking about just grabbing him and kissing him. I sometimes wonder would would happen if -... ? No. Nevermind.

Sometimes I catch Matthew looking at me, and I know – _I just know _– he can tell what I'm thinking about. Even when Matthew is infuriating me, even as I'm fantasising about pushing him down the stairs and making it look like an accident, I want to kiss him. Does that make me completely unhinged? I want to kiss him again. Oh god, how I want to kiss him again. And if I'm being completely honest with myself, most of my irritation with Matthew can be traced back to the fact that he doesn't seem to be that bothered about whether we kiss again or not. Frankly, he's acting like he could take it or leave it. He's so... so... blasé. When we're sitting next to each other on the sofa, I catch myself staring at his mouth, and he doesn't even seem to notice.

I hate Matthew Crawley.

Well, to hell with it all anyway, because I am not going to kiss Matthew again. It was a stupid idea in the first place. I could touch him, I suppose. Touching is less bad than kissing, isn't it? Touching isn't quite so wanton.

Oh, I wish Papa would come home. I want everything to return to normal.

* * *

**12th February 1913**

I don't even know where to begin. I've had such a strange day.

It started very early. Cousin Isobel had invited Sybil and I to the hospital to give us a tour of the facilities. "Invite" is actually a very strong word. Sybil made the mistake of hinting at an interest in nursing over dinner the other night, and Isobel declared she was going to give us both an education about what the world of nursing entails. I did point out that I have very little interest in the world of nursing, but Cousin Isobel is not a woman to be gainsaid. We were at the hospital and cleaning bedpans before it was even ten o'clock in the morning. By late afternoon, we were rolling bandages. It was awful.

"I think," I said to Sybil, "that I might hate Cousin Isobel."

"Don't be unkind. It was nice of her to show us the hospital."

"Nice was not the word that came to mind." I growled. "And I have absolutely no aptitude for rolling bandages."

"Mary, you've only rolled two bandages. Don't be so defeatist."

"That's right Mary!" Said Cousin Isobel, who even from the other side of the ward, was able to eavesdrop on our conversation with bat-like precision, "And I think you're doing a wonderful job. You've got a tremendous will, you know. You just need to apply it."

"But my will _won't._" I grumbled, and Sybil tried not to giggle. I picked up another piece of tangled bandage and tried to unravel it from the pile.

"Come on." said Isobel, joining us at the table. "It feels good to help others, doesn't it?"

"No. Sybil is the do-gooder in our household. I'm the aesthetician. My role is to accumulate and appreciate beautiful things."

"Oh?" said Isobel, "Is that why you're spending so much time with my son?"

I don't know what's happening to me. The old Mary would have had a witty retort about Matthew being a sea monster. As it was, all I could do was pretend to be absorbed in unravelling the bandages and try to look unaffected. Tra la la, nothing to see here. I swear I could feel Isobel's eyes burning into the back of my neck

"Speaking of your son," said Sybil, "where is Matthew?"

Isobel went suspiciously quiet, picking up one end of a bandage and tugging on it experimentally.

"Gosh, these bandages _are_ tangled, aren't they?" she said, and I watched her nervous fingers work to free the linen.

"It's just," Sybil continued, "that it's the weekend, you see. Matthew always comes to visit us at the weekend, doesn't he Mary? I've got to give him back that book he leant me."

Sybil continued on in that vein for a little while, but I was no longer listening. She was right, of course. It was Saturday, and Matthew always visits us on Saturday. It had become a sort of tradition. This morning the absence of the object of my constant ruminations had not gone unnoticed. That, coupled with the fact that his mother had absolutely _insisted_ that Sybil and I needed to be inducted into the world of nursing, (yuck), made for two very peculiar incidents in the space of twenty-four hours. This meant something, but what? _What?_

I looked at Isobel, and Isobel looked at me. What were those Crawleys up to?

"It was called 'A Vindication of the Rights of Woman'." Sybil contined, "It was really interesting, actually. It was written by Mary Wollston-..."

"The surprise!" I blurted. Sybil looked at me like I had gone mad. "The surprise! The surprise Matthew was working on with Mrs Hughes. Whatever they're planning, it's happening today."

Isobel laughed, unconvincingly. "What surprise?"

Sybil looked from Isobel to me with studied patience. I threw my bandage back into the basket, triumphantly. "That's why Isobel insisted on dragging us to the hospital! Matthew told her to get us out of the house!" And when Sybil failed to grasp how important this was, I gestured my arms emphatically, "He's at the house Sybil! He's... _he's doing things!" _

Cousin Isobel's face told me everything I needed to know. She was caught out. Sybil, on the other hand, still looked baffled.

"We need to get back to the house!" I said.

Sybil looked at me blankly. "But who will untangle the bandages?"

"Oh, hang the bandages! What's wrong with you? Matthew's up to something, we have to go!"

"But, why?"

"Because... !" Some of the patients were starting to stare at me. I saw Dr Clarkson peer his head out from behind a privacy screen at the other end of the room. "Because!" I said again. There. That was my argument.

"Well, whatever it is," Sybil said, rationally, "I'm sure we'll find out what it is when we get back."

But I was not in the mood for rationale.

It took about another hour of wheedling and foot-stamping before Sybil agreed to give up on the nursing idea and come home with me, and even then I suspect it was only because Dr Clarkson was losing patience was my constant nagging. Isobel was not happy with this idea, but in the end there was very little she could do. As Sybil fetched our coats, I watched Cousin Isobel whisper something to one of the younger nurses, who disappeared into the hallway and, I suspect, was dispatched ahead of Sybil and I in order to warn Matthew of our impending arrival. But it was too little, too late. Sybil and I were already on our way.

By the time we got back to the Downton, the house was in upheaval. We stood in the Great Hall, watching as William and Thomas carried the silver candlesticks – _the good candlesticks –_ into the dining room. Gwen followed behind them with an elaborate flower display of pale pink roses and white baby's breath, piled high in her arms. Mrs Hughes was standing at the other end of the hall, barking the usual orders and clapping her hands impatiently.

"Come on, come on!" she was saying, "Quick as you can! Move!"

"I think you were right." said Sybil, quietly. "Matthew was _doing things."_

In the end it was Anna who spotted us, and pointed us out to Mrs Hughes. There's a running joke in our family that Mrs Hughes only has one facial expression, but now I fancied I saw a modicum of surprise flit across her face. As we approached her though, she gave nothing away.

"Well," Mrs Hughes said to me, "I must admit milady, we weren't expecting you back quite so soon."

"I bet you weren't." I said.

Sybil shot me a warning look, before turning her attention to Mrs Hughes and saying in a kinder voice than I could manage, "Mrs Hughes, what's going on here?"

"I'm sorry milady, but I couldn't tell you. Mr Crawley had forbidden it. But now, I have been asked to give you these."

She pulled a couple of small envelopes out of her apron, and handed one to me and one to Sybil. The paper looked expensive – much more expensive than anything Matthew was accustomed to buying – and whereas Sybil looked confused, I think I recognised what the envelopes were before I even had to open mine.

"It should explain everything." Mrs Hughes said.

Sybil tore her envelope open with ruthless abandon, but I was more careful with mine. Pulling out the delicate, embossed paper, I read:

* * *

Your Are Cordially Invited to

The Downton Abbey

**FIRST ANNUAL BALL**

To Be Held At **DOWNTON ABBEY** On

Saturday 12th February 1913

Dancing 8pm-2am

* * *

"Look on the back." said Sybil.

I turned the card over in my hands to find the invitation had also doubled as a dance card. I glanced over the card quickly, but didn't really read it.

* * *

**PROGRAMME**

1. Waltz (Luna)...

2. Two-step (Pony Boy)...

3. Waltz (When I Marry You)...

4. Two-step (Dill Pickles)...

5. Waltz (Tom Jones)...

6. Waltz (Chocolate Soldier)...

7. Two-step (Sahara)...

8. Waltz (Vision of Salome)...

9. Gavotte (Three Twins)...

10. Waltz (Algeria)...

**SUPPER**

**Extra: **

**a) Waltz (Unrequited Love)**

**b) Two-step (Hello People)**

**c) Waltz (Dollar Princess) **

11. Two-step (Yama Yama)...

12. Waltz (Heartless)...

13. Two-step (Wild Cherries)...

14. Waltz (Waltz Dream)...

15. Two-step (Rings On Her Fingers)...

16. Waltz (Be Mine)...

* * *

I turned the card over in my hands, dumbly.

"He's holding a ball?" I said, "This is the surprise?"

"Yes." said Mrs Hughes, "It seems like you two couldn't go to London, so Mr Crawley is bringing London here to you."

I didn't know what to say. It was sweet of course, so terribly sweet, and I took a moment to try and decide how I felt about it, but my brain seemed to be suspiciously quiet on the subject. All I could hear was the blood rushing around in my head, and I thought for one terrible moment that I might cry. Sybil, luckily, saved me from embarrassment by grabbing my arm.

"My first ball, Mary!" She hissed in my ear.

"I can't believe it."

"It's only a small affair, I'm afraid." said Mrs Hughes, "It's all very last minute, and Mr Crawley doesn't really know that many members of High Society. He's invited a couple of his own friends to make up the numbers, and few of your neighbours. Still, he's put a lot of work into it."

This must have taken him weeks to plan. All of this, just for me and Sybil. Because I was sulking that I couldn't go to London. Oh, Matthew.

"I still can't believe it."

I felt a small hand on my arm, and when I looked up I realised it was Anna's.

"Are you alright, milady?" Anna said, softly.

"Of course I am." I said, "Why do you ask?"

"It's just that you're so very quiet. You are happy, aren't you?"

I was. I was so desperately happy. And also, paradoxically, I was so desperately sad too. I couldn't remember anyone ever doing something so thoughtful for me. Oh, Matthew, Matthew, Matthew...

"Of course I'm happy." I said.

And so was Sybil, who is always wont to smiling but now was grinning ear-to-ear. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen her this happy.

"I wonder who he's invited? What am I going to wear? Mary, will you help me pick something?" Her eyes scoured the back of her invitation again, as if she was worried she might have misread it. "Oh look, Matthew has already put his name down for the first waltz with me. Isn't that kind?"

"What?" I said, a little too quickly. I studied her dance card and she was right. On Sybil's card, next to '1. Waltz (Luna)...', Matthew had quite clearly scribbled his name down. I tried not to be annoyed. That was just Matthew, trying to be sweet.

"Hasn't he put his name down on your card, Mary?" asked Sybil.

"No, I don't think he-..." I looked at my dance card again. Oh, wait. He had. I had that brief moment of frisson again, and my heart skipped a beat when I realised I might actually be able to touch Matthew - _hold_ Matthew - in a perfectly safe and socially-acceptable environment, and no one would be any the wiser to my secret obsession. Looking closer at the card, I saw that Matthew had actually requested a couple of dances, and I told Sybil so.

She leant in closer, "Which ones?"

I examined the card more carefully. Actually, Matthew had requested more than a couple of dances. In fact, he had requested most of the waltzes. The 'frisson' gave way to excitement, and then the excitement gave way to annoyance. _Really Matthew? Most of the waltzes? _

"Oh." said Sybil, peering over my shoulder. And then, because there really is nothing else you can say to something like that, she said "Oh" again, but in a slightly more amused tone of voice.

"It's not funny, Sybil."

Sybil bit her lip.

"It isn't." I insisted.

"Come on." she said, taking my hand. "I need you to help me get dressed."

* * *

To be continued...


	15. Chapter 15

_**Author's Note: **I'm sorry it's late again. And I'm sorry I can't spell. I wrote most of this in the space of the past three hours, and that unfortunately meant I had to eat half a box of Jaffa Cakes for my dinner. Well, no, I didn't **have** to. Actually, that's one of the few perks of being a grown up. You can legitimately eat half a box of Jaffa Cakes for your dinner. Anyway, I digress. I want to thank you all again for your kind words, feedback and PMs. :) As always, it is a genuine pleasure to write this fanfic. _

_I'm going to eat the other half of the Jaffa Cakes now and there is literally nothing you can do to stop me._

* * *

**12th February 1913 continued...**

It took two hours for Sybil and I to get ready. Most of that time was spent in Sybil's bedroom, as I impatiently watched her try on this dress and that, discarding every item and declaring that she didn't have the slightest clue what she was supposed to wear. My sister, the irredeemable socialist, was having a panic attack about what to wear to her first ball. I was so proud, I could cry.

Of course, Sybil would look stunning if she walked into the ball wearing a potato sack, but in the end she settled on a black and silver high-waisted gown, and it set off her eyes beautifully. Whilst Anna made a big fuss over her hair, I ran into my bedroom to get changed. Unlike Sybil, I knew exactly what I wanted to wear. I always know, it's like an instinct. For me, preparing for an evening of dancing is like preparing for a military campaign.

I pulled out the red and gold dress. The one I was intending to wear the night when Winston and Mags came to visit. Edith had tried to sabotage my plans that night but, blessed relief, Sybil had rescued the dress and now Edith was in London, and there was nothing she could do to ruin my plans. I carried the dress back into Sybil's bedroom to get changed – after all, I needed Anna's help. This gown, combined with the corset and a new pair of black stays meant that getting dressed was really a two woman job. A pair of elbow-length cream gloves, and a silver hair clip, and I was ready.

The result was spectacular, even if I do say so myself.

By the time we made our entrance, Sybil and I were fashionably late. In fact, we were so fashionably late that it was beginning to border on unfashionable. Mrs Hughes was right when she said Matthew didn't know many members of High Society. There must have been less than two hundred people standing in the Great Hall, drinking champagne and talking animatedly. Although it was not quite as grandiose as I was used to, everyone seemed so much more relaxed than in the city. The band had started and already young couples were two-stepping in the centre of the large room. I looked for Matthew, but I couldn't see him.

The room itself was beautifully decorated, with the large and lavish displays of pink roses and baby's breath on every table. The silverware had been polished, the chandeliers were fully lit. Judging by the music, the band was already on the second song of the evening.

I turned to Sybil, who was staring at the room with wide, blue eyes.

"Is this what it's like?" she sighed "A ball?"

No. If I was being honest, the balls in Society tend to be a lot bigger and lot more lavish than this. There's more people, more flowers, more champagne, more everything. No, this was not like any ball I had ever been to. But I decided to lie and say "Yes." She'd find out the truth for herself next year, when she has her first real Season.

"But I like this better." I added, which was true.

It took a while to greet some guests, and introduce my sister to those of them who did not know her. Mr Harvell and Mr Carter, Matthew's employers, were there. Mr Harvell I recognised as the elder gentleman who nearly had a fainting fit when I barged through the doors of their offices a few days ago, and Mr Carter was a new acquaintance who couldn't seem to move his eyes any higher than my bustline. Charming. I drained two glasses of champagne trying to navigate my way through a conversation with them alone. Still, there was plenty of people my own age there to make up for it. Plenty of lively conversation and dancing.

But, _where was Matthew?_

"May I have this dance?" said a voice from behind me. It was Billy Russell. Billy is a neighbour of ours, from a very grand house called 'Haxby Park'. I've always liked Billy, although he's a couple of years younger than me and seems to have this perpetual state of anxiety around women that makes it very hard to maintain a conversation with him. He's not unhandsome, just cripplingly shy. And being in good spirits, and appreciating the fact that it probably took a lot of courage and not a small amount of wine to get Billy to ask me to dance, I smiled winningly and handed over my dance card. I've never seen a man look so relieved.

He pulled out a pen from his inside pocket and was about to scribble his name on my card when he stopped.

"Oh." he said.

"What?" I asked. Then I remembered. Matthew, and his sudden enthusiasm for waltzes. I peered at my card again and sure enough, Matthew's name was still scribbled under every waltz.

'Matthew Crawley', the card mocked me. 'Matthew Crawley. Matthew Crawley. Matthew Crawley'.

Poor Billy, he looked mortified. I could have killed Matthew. 'Matthew Crawley'. He wasn't even anywhere to be seen. 'Matthew Crawley'.

"You can just cross one of those names out. How about 'Vision of Salome'?" I said. "I like that song, and Matthew won't mind."

"Who says I won't?" Matthew seemed to appear out of nowhere. I nearly jumped out of my skin. My first impulse was to yell at Matthew for sneaking up on me, but then seeing him – the reality of him – standing before me, his blonde hair neat and styled with pomade, the stark white of his dress-shirt – the words caught in my throat. He looked so _handsome _in his tails. I mean, I've seen him dressed for dinner before, but not quite like this. My eyes practically drank him in, looking him up and down, but Matthew didn't even notice me. He was looking at Billy. No, he was _glaring _at Billy.

The poor boy was terrified.

"Perhaps I s-should-..." Billy stammered, "I'll go get some wine. I think I need a drink."

I blinked. I'm sure Billy's mother wouldn't appreciate it if we let him get completely sozzled.

"Goodbye." Matthew said coolly, and then watched him walk away.

"You scared him." I said.

Matthew nearly smiled. "Did I?"

"You needn't sound so pleased. Poor Billy."

"Never mind that. How do you like my surprise?"

I made a show of looking around the room appraisingly. I pretended to examine a flower display. Shrugged. Sighed.

"It will do, I suppose." I said, regally. Matthew rolled his eyes.

"This is the thanks I get." he said to no one in particular. And then, to me, "You know, I've been rather looking forward to tonight. It's been a long time since I've gone dancing."

I smiled politely at Lord and Lady Dalglish as they tried to catch my eye. God, they were boring. Did Matthew really have to invite all our neighbours? Oh god, Anthony Strallen wasn't here, was he? If I had to talk about farming machinery again, I swear I'd do something desperate.

"So," I said to Matthew, "Are you any good at dancing?"

"Oh no." said Matthew, "You have to find that out for yourself." And then he held out his hand. I stared at the hand, dumbly. It was just a hand, and I'd seen a million hands before just like it, except it wasn't just a hand, it was Matthew's hand, and now he was holding it out to me like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like I could just take it, and we could dance, and we would be just like a normal dancing couple, and it would all be just so easy.

But it wasn't easy. Matthew couldn't see it, but there were huge obstacles in our way. Huge, Pamuk-shaped obstacles. I wanted to take his hand so much, but I was so scared. I was_ scared. _Because I had always considered myself to be in control, to be master of my own emotions, and now I found myself beginning to care about Matthew. I began to lust after Matthew. And now, in spite of myself, I rather suspected I was a little bit in love with the idiot. In fact, I think I'd been in love with him for a lot longer than I'd been willing to admit.

"Come on." he said. "I won't bite."

I took his hand. I don't think I could have stopped myself. Matthew led me out on to the floor and I felt the gentle pressure of his hand on the curve of my hip, and something inside me swelled. Slowly, we began the waltz, finding the rhythm of each other's bodies and countering each other's movements. We stepped around each other. And I was so nervous, oh god, for the first time in my life I was dancing with a man who made me _nervous, _and that knowledge began to make me more nervous, and I felt the pressure of his hand on my hip pull me closer, closer, until our bodies were almost pressed together, and I knew it wasn't quite proper and everyone would probably be staring at us.

"OW!" Matthew cried. I'd stood on his foot.

"I'm sorry."

"It's alright." He said, pulling me back into his arms. We kept dancing and I felt the warmth of his breath on my neck. Crikey, we shouldn't be this close. What would people think? I looked around for Sybil but I couldn't see her.

"I'm normally a better dancer than this." I said, "I'm not quite sure what's got in to me. You probably think I've been at the champagne, but I haven't. Well, I have, but only one or two glasses. I think it's just because it's been such a long day." I looked up at Matthew. He was watching my face. "Have you seen Sybil? She was awfully excited..."

"You look lovely." He said.

"Oh." I said back. It wasn't what I was expecting, but I felt myself flush. He kept looking at me, _really_ looking at me, watching my face, and now I had realised that he was watching me I couldn't seem to tear my eyes off him. I seemed to be... stuck. Where we still dancing? I could hardly tell.

"_Oh god_, you look lovely." he said again, his voice was low and his hand tightened on my hip. "Mary, I need to talk to you." he murmured.

"We're talking now."

"No,_ really_ talk to you."

I swallowed. I became very aware of swallowing. I decided I didn't much like being nervous.

"Is this about our 'science experiment'?" I said.

Matthew smiled wryly. "Our _kiss_, Mary. And yes."

"Oh."

"Have you thought any more about it?"

Oh god, I've done little else but think about it. I saw no need to tell Matthew that, so I gave a small nod and let him twirl me around the room.

"And," Matthew said, dropping his voice, "what is your conclusion?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Would you like to try it again? Do you think that would help?"

"It might."

Matthew was dangerously close to smiling.

"That can be arranged. How about now?"

"In front of all these people?"

"No, somewhere private. The library?"

Oh, my father's library. I knew Mrs Hughes would have locked it knowing there were guests in the house, but it should be easy enough to get the key off her. I looked around again for Sybil. She was talking to the Lady Dalgleish. I could see Thomas was keeping a watchful eye on her. I disengaged myself from Matthew's arms and stepped away from him.

"Get the keys off Mrs Hughes and I'll meet you in there in ten minutes." I looked around the room, taking in all the guests I had yet to meet. And I promised Sybil I would stay with her until she was feeling a bit more confident. And, oh god, there was Anthony Strallen. He was walking towards me and he looked like he was going to start talking. If he started a conversation on hand-rearing poultry again, I was absolutely finished. I bit my lip. Matthew and I had better make it twenty minutes.

I turned back to Matthew, but he was already gone. Undoubtedly to find Mrs Hughes. _'Oh well, ten minutes it is...'_ I found myself thinking.

"Hello, Lady Mary!" said Anthony Strallen, "I was glad to hear you made a full recovery. We have missed you." He raised a glass of champagne in my direction, nearly spilling it on my dress in the process. "Say, you missed a lot of excitement whilst you were out. Did you know I'd acquired a new combine harvester...?"

Judging by the grandfather clock in the atrium, I had to put up with nearly twenty-three minutes of conversation about combine harvesters. I had to feign a fainting fit, just to get him to leave me alone. After I had sat down and I sent Mr Strallen off to fetch me a glass of water, Billy Russell came sniffing around again, seemingly encouraged by the fact that Matthew was nowhere to be seen. And after I had dispensed of Billy, Sybil was engrossed in a conversation with Branson, so I had to put a stop to _that_ right away. Before I knew it, I had left Matthew standing in the library by himself for nearly forty minutes.

I moved quickly, pushing my way through the crowds of people. Matthew was reasonable. He wouldn't be angry if I explained it to him. On the contrary, he'd probably think it was funny.

Oh, Matthew. I felt that familiar frisson. He was standing in the library and he was waiting for me, and all I had to do was reach out for him and he would kiss me. He would kiss me _properly_, and he would put his hands on me, and everything else would just slip away. Whatever happens in the future, no matter what he finds out about me, no matter how much he hates me, at least we would have this night. This one night.

I was so close to the library, when I heard a familiar voice.

"Milady, I'm sorry to bother you."

It was Bates. He looked quite pale.

"Good god, Bates. Are you alright?"

"I'm looking for Mr Crawley, milady. I don't suppose you've seen him?"

"He's..." I was going to say he was in the library. But considering I was about to lock myself in the library with him, that might raise a few eyebrows. "I don't know where he is. Can I help?" I tried to smile.

"Well, you see, it's Isis..."

No, I decided, Bates didn't look pale. He looked positively green. Something was wrong.

"Take me to her." I said.

Bates was surprisingly spry for an injured man. He took me to one of the parlours on the other side of the house, and Isis was there, lying in front of the fire and whining in pain. Anna was already with her, stroking her stomach.

"Is she going to be alright?" I said.

"She will, milady." said Anna, "We could have done with a vet or something, but I imagine she'll get through it just fine."

I looked at Bates and I looked Anna. I was missing something. What was I missing?

"Get through what?" I said, impatiently. Bates just stared at me, like I was mad._ "What?" _

It dawned on me slowly. I shook my head.

"It's true, I'm afraid." said Mr Bates.

"But, she can't!" I looked at Anna, who didn't take her eyes off the dog. I looked at Isis, who couldn't stop whimpering. I looked at Bates, who looked a bit sick at the prospect, but still managed to smile sympathetically. "Isis, how could you? You harlot!"

I know, I know, coming from me that's a bit hypocritical. But still, it looked like I wasn't the only 'fallen woman' in the Grantham household – Isis was going to have puppies. In the middle of the night, in the middle of the ball, whilst the rest of the family was away in London. I'll say this for the old girl, her timing was impeccable.

"Do we know how long we have?" I said.

Anna was practically whispering. Just like her, to be afraid of upsetting a dog. "It won't be long now, milady."

"Right." I said. I think I was in shock. What was I supposed to do, be a midwife? Me? I can't even dress my own hair. What we really needed was Cousin Isobel. She was the nurse of the family. What was I? I was the... I was the... oh god, I was_ the aesthetician. _

No, no I wasn't, I was Mary Crawley. There was nothing I couldn't handle. And really, once you've carried a dead body from one wing of the house to another, any pretense of screamishness gets thrown right out of the window. I could do this. I had to do this.

"Bates," I said, "Why don't you fetch some clean towels? And see if you can locate Mr Crawley, will you? He might be hiding in the library."

Bates disappeared out of the door with alacrity. I don't think he was so much disturbed about the idea of blood as he was disturbed about the idea of the birthing process. The whole thing was decidedly female. In the end, he got us the towels but decided to leave us to it.

"Anna?" I said, "Have you ever done this before?"

"Not really, milady." she said, "But my mother used to have cats. I have an idea."

"Well," I grimaced, "that's more than I have."

I'll spare you the gory details.

The whole process took a few hours. Luckily for us, Isis seemed to know what she was doing. She nuzzled the puppies and cleaned them herself, and all there was for Anna and me to do was catch the little things where necessary, and occasionally point them in the direction of where the milk comes from. They seemed happy enough. If wasn't even as messy as I thought it was going to be. And somewhere, between the birth of the third and the fourth puppy, Matthew wandered into the room, looking pink-faced and slightly tipsy.

"Where were you?" he said. "Two hours. Two bloody hours I've been standing th-..." then he seemed to spot Anna, and remembered himself. "Sorry Anna. Can we maybe have a minute? I need to talk to Lady Mary."

Anna, who was rubbing Isis behind the ears and making soothing noises, nodded in automatic agreement.

"Of course sir. In a minute, sir."

Matthew narrowed his eyes.

"_In a minute?_ Wait, what are you both doing on the floor?" I tried to stop him but he leaned over my shoulder, "Oh GOOD GOD!"

"Give her some privacy, Matthew. This isn't the circus."

Now Matthew looked green. "She's... she's..."

"Matthew, either grab a towel or _leave." _I said, harshly. I was shocked to discover that I was also whispering. I don't know why. It was Anna's influence, I expect. I, too, was worried about upsetting a dog.

Matthew didn't do either. He stood over my shoulder and watched as I navigated the puppies towards their mother. Three puppies soon became four puppies. Four puppies soon became five. Matthew stood there, shocked. Eventually he found his voice, and began to whisper words of encouragement. "Come on, you can do it!" excetera. I wanted to laugh.

"Matthew, darling, this isn't a cricket match." I said. But it didn't discourage him.

Five. Five tiny, ugly bundles of beige fur. Isis lay down, exhausted. Anna laughed. I exhaled loudly and leaned backwards, only to find Matthew was sitting behind me. He placed his hands on my shoulders. He looked a lot less pale now. In fact, he looked quite happy.

"That was marvellous. Well done, you two!"

"With respect, sir," Anna said, "I think you mean 'Well done, Isis!'"

I folded my arms. My dress – my beautiful red and gold dress, the prize of my collection – was ruined. There was definitely no salvaging it now. I'd have to get a new one made. I checked the time on the clock above the mantlepiece. The dancing would be long since over. The ball was done. My heart sank.

"Yes, Isis." I bit sarcastically, "_Well done._ Well done for getting pregnant. Well done for giving birth at the most inopportune moment, and ruining my night. _Well done_."

I felt, rather than heard, Matthew chuckling. His warm breath tickled my neck, and I felt the tiny hairs on my skin stand on end. Oh my. What would it feel like to be kissed there, I wondered?

"She didn't do it on purpose." Matthew said.

"Yes she did. I wouldn't be surprised if Edith put her up to it."

Anna stood up, scooping up the soiled towels.

"I'll just dispose of these, milady." she said, "I won't be a moment."

And then she was gone. It was just me and Matthew. The adrenaline of the past few hours seemed to seep out of me, and I closed my eyes. His hands, still on my shoulders. His warm breath, still tickling the nape of my neck. I felt so tired. And then there was a pair of lips against the skin of my neck, tracing a path along my hairline. My exhaustion warred with something else in my body. This _urge. _

"Matthew?" I said, quietly.

He hummed against my skin. It felt delicious.

"_Matthew."_ I said, more insistent.

"I know, my darling." he said, pulling away from me. "Not here. Not like this."

He smiled at me, and he smiled at the puppies. The light from the fire danced across his face and gave him altogether an ethereal quality. He looked so... kissable. But that could have been the lack of sleep talking.

"Come on." he said, "Why don't you lie down on the couch. Anna and I will clean up this mess."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

_**Author's note:** I'm sorry. I haven't updated in nearly two weeks. I'm not dead or anything, real life just sort of got in the way. I promise I won't leave it so long next time. This chapter's a little bigger than usual, which is mostly because of the guilt I felt in not posting earlier. _

_Yadda, yadda, yadda, Downton Abbey and all the characters belong to Julian Fellowes, copyrighted ITV or some such nonsense. Anyway, here's the latest installment. _

* * *

**13****th**** February 1913**

Which, of course, brings me to this morning.

When I finally woke up it was to the yip, yip, yipping sound of the newborn Granthams, causing trouble. They were too young to cause any serious mischief, but I thought I better check on them just the same. I opened one eye experimentally, squinting against the harsh daylight, and memories from the night before crashed over me in one great wave. The surprise ball. Matthew. The puppies. Matthew again. Always Matthew.

By the fireplace, Isis was lying down with the exhausted, beleaguered look of the 'New Mother' about her. Her puppies – (and this is something I have learnt about puppies since last night) – were indefatigable. Four of them seemed to be suckling happily, but one of them had somehow scrambled halfway across the carpet and seemed to be making a break for it. How the hell...? He was less than a day old, for god's sake. He couldn't even walk. He could barely even scamper. I scooped him up and put him back with his siblings.

"Nice try." I whispered.

"You're awake."

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Whereas I had been sleeping on the couch, it looked as if Matthew had taken the gentlemanly approach of sleeping in the armchair next to me. Watching me from the chair, his bow tie discarded and his socks stuffed into a ball in one of his shoes, he still looked rather sleepy. I felt unaccountably shy.

"What time is it?" I said.

"Just after five. How are you feeling?"

How was I feeling? You mean, asides from cripplingly embarrassed? My dress was ruined, my hair was a mess and I couldn't be a hundred percent certain that I hadn't been snoring like a freight train a few minutes earlier. Taking that into account, with the added factor that I was all too consciously aware that I had been dreaming about Matthew, made it very difficult for me to meet his eyes. On the other hand, Matthew seemed to have no difficulty in trying to meet mine.

"I'm fine. The servants will be getting up soon to light the fires." I said, punctuating my sentence with a yawn. Horrified at my own poor manners, I clapped a hand over my mouth to try and stifle another one. Matthew smiled.

"Get back on the couch, you're still tired."

For once, I was too exhausted to argue. I climbed on to the couch and leant my head against the cushion I had been using. Oh god, I was tired. I almost didn't care that I looked like a homeless waif. _Almost. _

"I look a mess." I said, sleepily. I felt my eyes drifting shut.

"No, you don't." It sounded like Matthew's voice, but it seemed so much further away. I was halfway asleep when I felt the couch dip, and a warm body pushed me further into the cushions. The body smelled wonderful. It smelled soapy. It smelt like Matthew.

"Come on." he said, "Make some room."

How I managed to move, I have no idea. I rolled away from the voice and felt a strong arm wrap around my body and pull me closer, my body tucked into his. A pair of soft lips kissing the back of my head.

"I wanted to do this earlier, but I didn't want to wake you." said the voice.

"Hmm." I said.

"You looked so comfortable curled up on this couch."

"Mm hm."

"And don't forget you owe me a kiss, Mary. I'm not accepting any 'IOU's."

"That's 'Lady Mary' to you." is the last thing I remember saying, before the sound of yip, yip, yipping and Matthew's warm chuckle carried me off into the ether.

When I woke up the second time, the fire was lit and Matthew was gone. Papa was standing over me, still wearing his hat and great coat. He was soaked to the skin. Blearily, I realised it must have been raining outside. I pushed my wrists into my eyes and rubbed hard. I had to be awake for this.

"Good morning, Papa." I said, "Welcome home."

Oh dear. He did not look happy.

"Mary, what on earth happened to your dress? Why are you sleeping down here?"

I looked around for Matthew, but he was gone. His shoes were gone. All trace that he had been sitting in this room with me whilst I slept were gone. Sadly, I was left to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing. I felt the back of my head where he had kissed me. No, I decided. I hadn't imagined it.

"It's a long story." I said. "I imagine Mrs Hughes told you about the ball we had last night?"

"She mentioned something to that effect. Everything seems to have been tidied away rather nicely... except, perhaps, for you."

He eyed the stains on my dress with some suspicion. Despite myself I found my eyes drifting towards Isis and the puppies by the fire. Papa hadn't seemed to notice them when he walked into the parlour, and I just hoped he would continue to not notice them long enough for me to make my escape and let someone else dole out the bad news. All I wanted was a hot bath and a change of clothes. No such luck. The yip, yip, yipping had started again. Oh, god. What were they up to _now?_

Papa followed my gaze. One of the puppies was mountaineering up Isis' back, who seemed to be accepting this with unerring patience. Papa paled. It was at this point that Edith poked her head around the door. She was already smirking before she took in my dishevelled appearance, but when she saw the state of my hair she actually grinned.

"Good lord," she said, "what happened to you?" and then, "Is that blood?"

Papa was quiet. Edith was too gleeful to notice his dangerous mood, and continued to scrutinise me.

"What happened? Did you and Cousin Matthew decide to finally duke it out?"

I scoffed. Chance would be a fine thing. Although I refused to meet her eye, I could pinpoint the exact moment when Edith noticed the puppies by her sharp intake of breath. Papa said nothing.

Standing up and smoothing out my skirts, I announced that I was going to get a bath to no one in particular, and disappeared out of the room with alacrity. I was halfway up the stairs before Papa started shouting. I don't think I've ever moved so fast in my life. I don't envy whoever has to explain this situation to my father.

I'm just determined that it's not going to be me.

* * *

**14th February 1913**

Matthew is dead to me. Dead.

It's Valentine's Day, and I've received nothing from him._ Nothing. _Hence, he's dead to me.

But in all seriousness, I've received no valentines. This is the first year since I was a child that I've received absolutely nothing. Even Mrs Hughes received a clandestine card from somebody, (which actually intrigued me, because I could tell from the horrified look on Carson's face that he knew nothing about it).

(Must make a note to pursue this mystery further).

(Actually, the idea of Carson and Mrs Hughes having a love affair has turned my stomach).

So there you have it. Between Mrs Hughes' mystery valentine and Isis' sudden foray into motherhood, one can only conclude that even housekeepers and dogs have a better love life than I do. It's all horribly depressing. My only comfort is that despite Edith's repeated crowing, it would appear my darling sister has not had a very successful Season in London after all. In fact, Aunt Rosamund has let slip that Edith may have done something embarrassing to ruin her chances with Evelyn Napier. Mama silenced her very quickly, but I'm determined to find out the truth.

In other news, Papa has finally calmed down. When he found out about Isis getting pregnant, I thought he was going to have a heart attack, but thankfully his temper was shortlived so any heart attacks were narrowly avoided. In the end, Bates was the only one who had the nerve to tell him what happened. Even as I was safely absconded in the bathtub upstairs, amidst the clanging on the pipes and Anna's incessantly cheery chatter, I could hear Papa's raised voice. ("_Why didn't anyone send for me?" "Well, who's the bloody father then?!" "YOU DON'T KNOW?") _After an hour or so, the volume began to lower. Eventually, it stopped altogether.

I looked at Anna as she passed me the loofah.

"Well," I said, "Mount Grantham has erupted but it seems the villagers have been spared."

She giggled, but like a true Lady's Maid, she neither condoned nor agreed with my statement.

It was later at dinner that Papa managed to corner me, and ask if it was true. Was I really instrumental in the delivery process, as Bates had said? I was a little taken aback.

"I don't know if I would say I was 'instrumental'." I said, "Isis had it more or less under control."

Papa's eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling. I think he was expecting me to deny it.

"Really, Mary?" he said, "You helped deliver the puppies?"

"Yes Papa." I said. "Anna and I were both there."

His mouth opened and closed a few times. It was a fairly good impression of Matthew. I don't think he could quite get his head around the idea.

"_You?" _he asked again, just to make sure.

"Yes, Papa. Me. Mary. Your eldest daughter."

Papa shook his head, but all-in-all he looked quite amused. In contrast to this, Granny and Mama looked horrified. Sybil looked impressed, although a little disappointed to have been left out of the action. Edith did her best to look bored.

"Mary," Granny said sternly, "I hope you won't be looking to take this up professionally. I remember you going through a similar phase of wanting to become a vet when you were a child."

"Did I?" I said, although it sounded vaguely familiar.

"Yes. Although we didn't have any pets back then, so you used to practice on Carson."

Oh yes, it was coming back to me now. Poor, long-suffering Carson. He was the closest thing to a domesticated animal that my seven year old mind could come up with, and he put up with me taking his temperature and bandaging him up without any protests.

"Well," I said, "I'm sorry to disappoint you all, but I don't think I'll be pursuing a career any time soon. My plan is to get married and be frightfully rich."

Granny seemed satisfied but Mama still looked worried. Papa, on the other hand, seemed happier than he has done in ages. For the first time since I can remember, he looked genuinely proud of something I accomplished.

"Well then, if you and Anna helped to deliver them, I think you and Anna should be allowed to name them."

I smiled, "Really?"

"Oh yes. But bear in mind we won't be able to keep them. As soon as they reach a certain age, we'll have to find them all good homes."

My heart sank a little. It seemed a little unfair that Isis didn't get a say in what happens to her own puppies. But hey-ho. That's what happens to unwed mothers, isn't it?

* * *

**15****th**** February 1913**

Things are back to normal. Although 'normal' is a subjective term, so perhaps it would be more accurate to say that things are back to being about as normal as things can be at Downton Abbey. Papa is doting over Isis and her offspring, Edith is back to making ill-concealed barbs over breakfast and Mama is wringing her hands as another Season passes, and still none of her daughters have managed to bag a husband.

The one great benefit of Papa and Mama being back from London is that they've clearly felt guilty about having to exclude me from the Season this year, and so Mama has promised I can have some new dresses. We'll be driving into Ripon later today to pick something. Mama and I always argue about what to wear, because if it was up to her I'd be dressed like a nun, all day, every day. I'm thinking something in a dark green with a plunging neckline.

Another benefit is that I've managed to snatch my necklace back off Edith. For good measure I also stole a pair of emerald earrings she had left sitting on her dresser. I wasn't planning on wearing them. On the contrary, I've hidden them in a sock in one of the airing cupboards on the third floor. This is partly to get her back for taking my jewellery to London without asking, but for the most part it's a benevolent act. They really are ugly earrings, and as far as I'm concerned I'm doing her a favour. Really, Edith. They look like something Granny would wear. Ideal only if you're planning to woo a man in the fifty-plus age bracket.

I forgot how much I love torturing my sisters. Welcome back, Edith!

* * *

**16****th**** February 1913**

Well, yesterday's dress-fitting was a nightmare. Asides from the inevitable arguments that arise between Mama and I when it comes to dress-patterns, Edith and Sybil insisted on coming with us so of course Edith had to throw in her shilling's worth of opinions about every dress I tried on.

At one point, she said "That colour makes you look fat."

Having examined myself from every angle, I could confidently answer her with a terse, "No it doesn't."

Mama rubbed the bridge of her nose and sighed. According to Edith, the last three dresses had made me look fat in one way or another. "Darling," she said, "I'm not sure how helpful you're being."

"How can a colour make you look fat, anyway? You're being ridiculous."

"I think you look lovely." Sybil chirped. But then, Sybil had said the last three dresses had also made me look lovely. I really could have used Anna in a situation like this. Anna knew exactly when I needed her to be honest and when I needed her to be diplomatic.

"There's no one to wear it for anyway." Edith grumped, "The only man we know is Cousin Matthew and he's certainly not interested."

I felt my back stiffen. This dress was exactly the right shade of green and it had a plunging neckline. If Matthew's reaction to this dress was anything short of fainting or delirium, I will be sorely disappointed. Nevertheless, I had to bite my tongue. The thing with siblings is that you can't show them any sign of weakness, or they will go for the kill. Trust Edith to inadvertently stumble upon my Achilles heel. Well, she's been away for the past month or so, she couldn't possibly know about everything that has passed between Matthew and I… could she?

Mama certainly didn't. That much quickly became apparent.

"I hope you weren't too hard on Cousin Matthew whilst we were away, Mary. You know your father just wants the two of you to get along."

Again, I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I focused my attention on my reflection in the mirror. Did the dress make me look fat? Was it the colour? Oh damn it all to hell, I should have stuck with the red.

"Actually, I've been thinking." Mama said, "You should spend more time with Matthew."

I could feel the blush creep up my arms. "Me?" I practically squawked.

"No, not you. Edith."

I could see Edith's reflection in the mirror, standing over my shoulder and looking every bit as taken aback as I did. The only difference between the two of us being that Edith's reflection looked rather pleasantly shocked, whereas my reflection looked like she might be sick at any minute.

"Me and Matthew?" Edith said.

"Well, you get along awfully well, dear. Maybe you could show him the rest of the churches in the area?"

I pretended to examine my eyebrows in the mirror. With affected haughtiness, I said. "I'm not sure Edith is Cousin Matthew's type."

"Mary," Mama said, "don't be unkind. Edith and Matthew get on very well, there's no reason at all why he wouldn't want to marry Edith."

Marry Edith? Oh god, I thought, I really _was _going to be sick. Wait until Granny hears about this.

"The thing with Mary," said Edith, "is that she thinks that every man must be attracted to her, and not even want to look at another female."

My cheeks were already fairly pink – but whether it was with rage or embarrassment, I still couldn't tell you. I pinched them anyway, trying to make it look like I was only pretending to blush.

"Not all the men." I said, "Just the ones _with eyes."_

"Mary," Mama said, "don't you worry, your father and I will find a suitable match for you. But if you don't want Cousin Matthew, than we need to hitch him up to somebody. He's clearly very fond of Edith."

_But I do want Cousin Matthew_, I wanted to scream. He can be as fond as Edith as much as he likes, but at the end of the day, I'm the one he wants to kiss. And whilst we're on the subject, no, he _can't_ be as fond as Edith as he likes. I've changed my mind. Just call it the woman's prerogative. I looked to Sybil to see if she would support me, but she didn't seem to have an opinion. She was just examining me, trying to read me the way she reads those damn broadsheets or pamphlets on social reform.

By her furrowed brow, I gathered she didn't have much success.

"Fine." I said. And then, having suddenly lost my taste for dressmaking and millinery, I ordered three dresses at random, two of which I hadn't even bothered to try on. Two formal dinner dresses, one gold and one green, and a light blue morning dress. I walked out of the shop before Mama had even finished paying for them, and waited for everyone in the car.

Two things became immediately clear to me, as I sat in that back seat and stared at the back of Branson's head. Number One: I had to sabotage any attempts that Mama might have to marry Matthew Crawley off to either of my sisters.

And Number Two: Branson really needed a haircut.

* * *

**16****th**** February 1913**

**Names for the puppies, as decided by Lady Mary Crawley and Miss Anna Smith:**

**Tiberius **is the large, bossy one. He likes to climb on things and often makes the most noise. (Edith had previously suggested that we called this dog 'Mary'. I was not amused, but for some reason Sybil thought this was hysterical. Traitor).

**Claudius** is, as Matthew puts it, 'the small, dumpy one'. He can barely move, and if not carefully monitored, tends to be left out of the feedings by his more boisterous siblings. I am Claudius' champion, and refuse to let the other dogs bully him the way they do. I have a soft spot for Claudius.

Keeping in with the Julio-Claudian theme, **Drusus** is the one that's always trying to escape. This one is Papa's favourite, and he's always scooping him up and talking to him in an embarrassingly babyish voice. _("Look at him go, Mary. He's a free spirit!")_ Matthew better watch out. If it's up to Papa, Drusus could be the new heir to Downton.

**Nero **likes biting things. We named him 'Nero' because I'm convinced he's psychotic. Anna rejected my idea to call this one 'Edith'.

**Germanicus** is the fifth one. I don't know why. We were running out of Roman names. In the end we just said 'Germanicus will do'. Granny says naming him that is both 'Hunnish' and 'unpatriotic'.

This morning the family all went to church together for the first time in a long time, and took our usual spot in the Grantham pew right at the front of church. Reverend Travis was on top form, and within a matter of minutes his sermon had reduced several members of the congregation to boredom-induced catatonia.

But something felt off that day. I felt like someone was watching me. Did you ever hear that saying, "like eyes burning into the back of your skull?" That's what it felt like. Not like_ actual _burning, but like I could feel someone staring at me. Surreptitiously I turned around, and it didn't take long before I found the source.

Matthew Crawley had arrived late, and had taken his seat a few rows back from the rest of the family. When he saw I'd caught him watching me, he smiled saucily. He wasn't even slightly embarrassed. There's something undeniably satisfying about thinking inappropriate thoughts during mass, don't you think?

Having not seen Matthew for a couple of days, and feeling rather bolder than usual, I flashed him a quick smile and turned back to face the front of the church. If I could have gotten away with winking at him, I would have. It was just that sort of day.

After the mass had finished, Papa and Mama did their usual routine of greeting members of the congregation and making polite chitchat whilst we, their doting daughters, pretended to feign interest. I felt a hand tug at my sleeve, and I looked up to see Matthew at my side.

"Hello." I said, "Wh-?" But he hushed me, and bundled me quickly out of the throng of the congregation.

"Come outside." he said, loudly, "I want to show you that trellis I was telling you about."

"But, I-..." I didn't remember having a conversation with Matthew about a trellis. I wasn't entirely sure what a trellis was.

As soon as I was outside, he led me around the side of the church and passed the churchgoers, until we had moved beyond the churchyard and were hidden from sight behind one of the oldest oak trees in the village. The tree was huge and a favourite amongst the village children to climb. It was certainly large enough and rotund enough for Matthew and I to hide behind without fear of being caught. Once we were well hidden, Matthew peered behind the tree to make sure no one was following us.

"I think we're safe." he said.

"Good." I said, "What's a 'trellis'?"

"For god's sake, Mary." he said, and kissed me. He used one hand to tilt my mouth up to meet his and the other found its way to the small of my back and pulled my body close to his. Oh god, it was wonderful. His hands moved slowly, tracing the curve of my hip, exploring new territory. The effect was instantaneous, and I felt my whole body begin to burn up. As his fingers traced invisible patterns along the fabric of my dress, it was everything I could do to keep myself upright. It felt like every part of me, every square-inch of skin, every nerve-ending was waiting for those hands. I sighed against his lips.

"Mary." he whispered against my lips. "Mary, Mary, Mary. I've missed this."

Somewhere in the back of my mind I became aware that this could be the last time I got an opportunity to kiss Matthew, so I was determined to make it last. I kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him. And when he tried to pull away I grabbed him by the side of the head and pulled him right back again, albeit with little objection from Matthew. The rest of the world seemed to be so very far away. Slowly, as the need to actually breathe became too pressing to ignore, I relinquished my hold, and Matthew and I pulled apart to look at each other.

Matthew's lips were pink and swollen, his eyes large and dark. He looked rather dazed. I thought I probably looked quite similar.

"Crikey." He breathed.

"You can say that again."

There was a moment where we just watched each other and didn't talk. There was nothing to say anyway. Still breathing heavily, he leant in close. His arms were around me and he kissed me again. Slower, this time. Savouring it. I felt my eyes flutter closed.

"We should get back." I said, half-heartedly.

Matthew didn't seem to hear me. He kissed every word from my lips. I moved my hands inside his morning jacket and undid his waistcoat. I wanted to feel his warmth again. He moaned and tried to pull me closer. His hips pressed into mine. _Oh, my._

"Wait, Papa will be looking for us."

"_Mary."_ He sounded pained.

"You know that I'm right."

He stopped kissing me, but didn't let me go. His face, close to my face. His breath mingling with mine. It was actually quite intoxicating. How was I going to let go of this?

"You usually are. Right, I mean."

"I'm glad you agree. I've been saying that for years."

It was good to see Matthew laughing. He lifted his hand and tucked a stray lock of hair behind one of my ears. It was a strangely intimate gesture.

"Have you reached a conclusion yet? About our little..." he shook his head from side to side, "'science experiments'."

This was a tough one. I knew Matthew wanted more from me. And the horrible truth of the matter was that I wasn't completely adverse to the idea. In fact, I rather adored the idiot. But I couldn't become engaged to Matthew, not without telling him the truth about Pamuk. And I couldn't tell him the truth about Pamuk without him hating me. It was a horrible, desperate paradox. Couldn't we just stay like this forever? Young and unmarried and kissing in churchyards? It would suit me just fine.

Matthew was looking at me, waiting for a response. I gave him a quick kiss, but really I was just buying time. Oh god, what was I going to do. After a minute, I decided there really was only one thing I could do. Tell him the truth. Tell him about Pamuk. Tell him everything.

"I think you know how I feel about you." I said to Matthew.

His arms tightened around me.

"_Say it." _He said impatiently, although not without a smile on his face.

"But you see, the thing of it is..." For a minute there he looked so happy. I took a moment to memorise his face like that. I wanted to remember him like this, before I dealt the crushing blow. I reached my hand up to touch his cheek, and he turned his face into my palm so he was kissing my hand. The gesture was strangely erotic. Erotic and fascinating. I wanted him to kiss all of me. Oh god, I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him. He'd hate me.

I tried again, "The thing is..."

_I couldn't do it_.

"What is it?" He was looking worried now. "Are you alright? You look like you're going to cry."

And with that, I did cry. And I hated myself for it. Ordinarily when I get tearful, I get angry. I hate it when other people see me cry. I hate any sign of weakness. But there was no anger today, only tears and exhaustion and self-hatred. Yes, self-hatred. For the first time in my life, I truly hated myself. I hated what I had become.

Matthew's hands were everywhere. In my hair, on my back, on my arms, stroking me and trying to console me.

"What is it? It'll be alright. Shhh, now. I can help."

I was trapped. I had to tell him now. There was no way out. Unless... _no._

A wave of inspiration had hit me. I had the perfect excuse. It wouldn't get me completely out of the woods but it would certainly buy me some time.

"You're marrying Edith." I sobbed. Matthew looked confused. He wrinkled his nose.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mama and Edith have decided it between them. Mama wants to fix you up with Edith. She's going to invite you to go church-visiting again, and you're to say yes."

At first Matthew looked amused, and then annoyed. "Don't I get a say in this?"

"No." I sniffled, "And neither do I, apparently."

"That's what's upsetting you? It's ridiculous." I stopped crying and folded my arms, indignantly. "I mean, _you're_ not ridiculous, the idea is ridiculous. Because I promise you I'm not visiting any more churches. And I'm certainly not going to marry her."

"I know. I'm being silly, really. It's just that Mama was so _insistent_. She has her heart set on it."

"My heart isn't set on it. My heart is set somewhere else, thank you very much."

"Well, Edith has her heart set on it. And I hate the idea of breaking Edith's heart..."

"Since when?"

Oh, alright. I had to concede that point to Matthew. Edith and I love to routinely stamp on each other's hearts. It's practically a hobby with us.

"Matthew..."

"_I love you." _Matthew said, "I know you don't want me to say it, but it's true. And just because I don't say it, doesn't make it any less true. I love you. And I think that you love me too."

I swallowed. I didn't say anything. I couldn't deny it but I couldn't quite work up the courage to admit it, either.

"It's alright if you can't say it yet." he smiled, half-heartedly, "I'll get it out of you eventually."

Somewhere in the distance was a noise. A woman's voice, shouting. I was vaguely aware of it but trying to focus on the conversation at hand.

Matthew said, "Whatever schemes your mother is cooking up is going to have absolutely no effect on me, and you know that. Here's what we'll do – I'll rebuff Edith's invitations as much as possible, and if she tries anything too forward then I'll just have to have a frank talk with her. In a couple of weeks this will all die down, and then..." he trailed off.

"And then what?"

"Like I said." he kissed my nose. "I can wait."

Bloody Matthew. Typical bloody Matthew. Typical bloody chivalrous bloody Matthew, has to go and make this whole situation ten times more difficult by saying the one thing that's guaranteed to make me love him more. Couldn't he just be more of a cad? Couldn't he just have bad breath, or something? Or a lisp? Couldn't he just, at the very least, not be so bloody perfect all the time?

"Fine." I grumped, "But don't think that gets you out of kissing me, because it doesn't."

Matthew's smile could only be described as lascivious.

The woman's voice was getting louder. Loud enough for it to register in my mind. I pulled away from Matthew just in time for Cousin Isobel to walk in front of us.

"There you are." she said accusingly to Matthew, "I hope you two aren't arguing again."

"Of course we are." I said. "It's tremendous fun."

"Care to join us, Mother? You love a good argument."

Isobel looked for a moment like she was going to roll her eyes, but didn't. Matthew offered her his arm to escort her back to the church and she took it without protest.

"Mary, your father was looking for you. They're waiting in the car. We're thinking of all going to Cousin Violet's for tea. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

Visiting Granny's house could be described as many things, but seldom 'lovely'. I followed the Crawleys back towards the church, changing my course of direction when I saw where Branson had parked the car. I waved goodbye to them both, and walked up the churchpath as I felt the first cold drops of rain on my hands.

"Hang on," I heard Isobel say to Matthew, "did you and Mary get to finish your argument?"

"No, it doesn't matter." Matthew said. "I can wait."

* * *

To be continued...


	17. Chapter 17

**_Author's Note: _**_Hi everyone! Just a quick note to let you know that I'm not dead. Here's another brief chapter in the ongoing marathon that is 'Lady Mary Crawley's Diary'. I__ want to thank you all for your support and kind words, and for making it a genuine pleasure to write this story. I'll keep writing, regardless of whatever life throws at me, (eg - if my job sucks, or my laptop pulls another Dan Stevens, or my arms get mauled off by tigers, etc). (Also, I'm really pushing to get the phrase 'pulling a Dan Stevens' into the english lexicon). I know it's been over a week since I updated, but I won't abandon the story, I promise. _

_For the record, rather than end the diary at the end of Series One, (July 1914), I thought I might end it at the end of 1913 instead. This is partly because I've decided to cave into popular demand and give this story a completely AU ending. Because let's face it, if I played it the way Julian Fellowes intended, most of the characters in this fic are going to end up dead or miserable. So, screw that. I'm hijacking this fandom and giving it a happy ending. DO YOU HEAR ME, FELLOWES? YOU CAN'T STOP ME. _

_But enough of this, on with the next chapter..._

* * *

**18th February 1913**

Papa decided to throw an impromptu dinner party tonight. He didn't invite anybody special, only old Travis and Anthony Strallan whom, for some reason, Mama had decided to seat next to me. I have this horrible feeling that Mama is trying to make a match out of me and Strallan. This doesn't bode particularly well for me, because: a) Strallan keeps trying to initiate conversations about farming equipment, b) I was busy having rather unladylike thoughts about Matthew, who was sitting at the other end of the table and c) Strallan is so boring that Mama actually had to resort to inviting Travis to dinner, in a vain attempt to make sure Strallan wasn't the most boring man at the table.

I just wished Mama had warned me, that's all. Had I known she was trying to set something up with Strallan, I wouldn't have made such an effort when I dressed. As it was, I wore one of my new dresses – the gold one – which actually fits me quite well, despite the fact it was the first time I had tried it on. The sole purpose for wearing this dress was that I has my suspicions that Mama was going to seat Matthew and Edith together at the table, and as far away from me as she could get them. I just wanted to remind Matthew what he was missing. And, sure enough, Matthew took one look at my new dress and walked into a coat rack.

"Good Heavens, Mary!" said Cousin Isobel, as William was taking her coat, "That's quite an eye-catching little number, isn't it? Is it new?"

I smoothed my skirts. "Why? Don't you like it?"

"Of course I do, you look lovely. Doesn't she Matthew?"

Matthew had gone a strange shade of red and didn't answer her. Mama, who was greeting Reverend Travis and was, of course, being a flawless hostess, audibly gasped when she saw what I was wearing. She looked at me like I had gone quite mad.

"It is a lovely dress, you look quite beautiful." She said, finally. At the sound of the dinner gong, she led the way into the Dining Room and we followed, dutifully. As an after thought, she looked at me over her shoulder and said, "It's just a shame you decided to wear it _now,_ instead of at a grander occasion. I hear the Russells are having a party next month. You should have saved it till then."

I tried to smile in what I hoped was a demure way.

"Well," I said, "what could be grander than a dinner alone with my favourite people?"

"Quite right." said Anthony Strallan.

Sybil smiled and linked my arm, but Edith rolled her eyes.

"What Mama is trying to say," said Edith, "is that you're over-dressed."

I rolled my eyes. Mama, who was positively desperate not to be privy to another clothing-related argument between me and Edith, and especially not with guests in the house, intervened.

"That's not what I meant." She said, glaring at Edith.

"Isn't it?" Said Edith, "I was sure we were all thinking it."

"Why?" I hissed into her ear, "Would you prefer if I took it off?"

I hadn't thought anyone had heard me, until I spared a glance at Matthew and saw that his jaw had dropped open. Oh dear. As pleasing a reaction as that was, he really shouldn't have heard that. After the Pamuk debacle, I can't afford any cracks in my 'virginal young maiden' facade. I smiled innocently, and tried to pretend I hadn't said anything at all. Matthew, who wasn't looking where he was going, collided with Papa and apologised three or four times for his clumsiness.

Papa straightened his tails, "I say, steady on, old chap."

I mused on this whilst we were absconded into the Dining Hall. Strallan politely pulled my chair out for me, and as I took my seat I spared a surreptitious glance at Matthew, who was staring at me heatedly from his side of the table and gripping the back of his chair so hard that I could see his knuckles were going white. Despite my slip, I couldn't deny how satisfying it was to see him like that. His eyes seemed to be fixed on my dress and I felt equally pleased and unnerved by his reaction. I hadn't expected his reaction to look quite so predatory. I felt my skin flush.

Dinner was otherwise a quiet affair. Edith talked at length about her Season in London, (although she glossed over any mention of Evelyn Napier, strangely enough), and Mama started talking about the impending Flower Show in the village. I lost interest almost immediately. I tried not to watch Matthew, but damn it if he didn't stop staring at me like that, I wouldn't be held responsible for my actions. Every so often, I'd catch him biting his lip and something inside me would, I don't know, flutter. My heart would stop and the hairs on my arm would stand on end and it was like every cell in my body was trying to dilate at once. It's like a brief rush of madness. Like I _needed_ to reach out to him. Have you ever felt like that? Like you needed to be touched?

I had to distract myself. This was dangerous thinking. I stabbed the same piece of chicken several times and, having decided that it was overcooked and probably inedible, made absolutely no attempt to eat it.

I looked up to see Granny sitting across from me at the table and smiling slightly.

"Are we boring you, Mary?" She smiled.

I raised my eyebrow, questioningly.

"It's just that you seem to be amusing yourself. Is the conversation not to your liking?"

I looked down at the massacred chicken. It didn't even look like a chicken anymore. It didn't look like anything.

"Oh, you know me. I like to make sure my prey is well and truly subdued before I devour it."

"Don't we know it." mumbled Edith, which earned her a glare from Mama. Matthew didn't seem to be listening to her. He was still watching me and hadn't touched his food. I took a sip of water. Was it hot in here, or was it just me?

Towards the end of the evening, whilst we had all gathered around the fireplace in the Drawing Room, Matthew did a fairly good job of commandeering my attention. Standing close, with one hand pressed against the flat of my back, he spoke quietly so that I had to lean forward to hear what he was saying. It was all very daring in a room full of people, and I knew I should put a bit more space between us, but I just couldn't seem to make my legs move. He smelt so wonderful. He always smells so wonderful.

And you know Matthew, he's normally so well-mannered. But even though he didn't try to stop Anthony Strallan from starting a conversation with me, every time poor old Strallan tried to ask me a question or paid me a compliment, Matthew pulled a face. At one point, I swear he almost snarled.

Matthew and I spent most of the evening standing next to each other, pretending not to stare at one another and keeping our discussions deliberately bland. I was just updating Matthew about the state of the puppies, (Claudius doesn't seem to be feeding properly), when Edith interjected.

"Matthew, I've been meaning to talk to you ..."

"Oh?" Matthew said, "What about?"

"I was wondering," she said, "we never did get around to visiting those other churches, did we? Around the local area?"

Matthew wouldn't look at me. He just swallowed hard and said, "Uh, no."

"It's been terribly remiss of me. I promised I'd show them to you."

"Well, yes, but..."

"And I'd hate to disappoint you!"

Isobel, with her bat-like hearing, added from across the room, "Oh, how wonderful! Matthew, didn't you say you wanted to see St Christopher's?"

Edith's face lit up. Mama's face lit up. Isobel, who has seemingly been on a one-woman mission to become a grandmother since she first set foot on Downton soil, had her face already well-lit. The only people who weren't happy about this prospect were me, (I'm sure I must have been scowling), and Matthew, (who went quite pale). It was just us against the rest of the room, I think. My heart sank.

Well, just us, and Granny.

Granny looked between Edith and Matthew with something akin to horror on her face, having already invested so much of her time the past few weeks trying to get Matthew and I to kindle a romance. And Granny, being a woman of advanced years, did not consider herself to have time so much in abundance that she could just fritter it away with nothing to show for it. In the space of one evening she could see the danger of all of her good work becoming undone. For once, I was grateful for Granny's bullish behaviour.

"When were you thinking of going?" she said to Edith.

"Oh, I don't know." Edith smiled. "Maybe Wednesday? If Matthew can get the time off work. Or we could go after work, seeing as the days are starting to get lighter."

Matthew looked like he was ready to object, but before he got the chance to, Granny said "Excellent. Mary and I will come with you."

I'm not sure who was more shocked. Me or Edith.

"Mary?" Edith said.

"Me?!" I said, in a similar tone of voice.

"Of course," Granny said, "We love churches, don't we Mary?"

I blinked, "Do we?" Granny was glaring at me so hard, I thought her retinas might detach. "Of course we do." I said, blankly.

Matthew looked pleased. "Do you?"

I shot him a reproachful look. Of course I don't like churches. They're _churches,_ Matthew. I don't consider myself to be an atheist per se, but I'm not exactly an avid believer either, and there's only a certain amount of excitement I can muster for side-aisles and vestries. Oh god, we're going to have to look at vestries aren't we? Even the thought of it is painfully boring.

"Of course I like churches." I said, through gritted teeth. Edith looked like she wanted to smack me, which almost made it worth it. In turn, Matthew rocked back and forth on his feet excitedly, and for one horrifying moment I thought he might lean down and kiss Granny.

"Alright!" he said, "Wednesday it is. We can pack a picnic and make a real day out of it. It sounds like it's going to be jolly good fun, actually." He looked at me, "I hear St Christopher's has a font from the _14__th__ Century." _he whispered excitedly.

I looked at Granny and Edith, and they looked nearly as horrified as I did. I'm grateful for Granny's interference, but she had just inadvertently signed us up for a day of 14th Century fonts. Matthew was the only one of us who looked remotely pleased at the prospect.

It has occurred to me, dear diary, that I am in love with one of the most boring men in the country. Nay, the world. But then, what does that say about me? The only man in all the world who can inspire me to the heights of raw, sexual frisson, and it's a man obsessed with church architecture. Even Strallan's farming equipment is more interesting than that.

* * *

**19th February 1913**

Oh, dear god. Matthew has dropped off an 'itinerary' for our church-visits tomorrow. The itinerary is even colour-coded and comes with it's own appendices. Matthew has been putting too much thought into this.

* * *

**THE GROUP ITINERARY: **

**9am – St Christopher's Church, Ripon. Highlights: 14th Century Font. Aumbry dating back to the middle ages. Original nave work _still in tact._**

**10am – St Edmund's, Ripon. Highlights: Enormous atrium. Basilica. A Byzantine-style apse. **

**11am – St Thomas'. One of the largest Roman Catholic Churches in the area. Stained glass windows and pre-Cromwell alter. **

**12pm – Break for lunch...**

* * *

I couldn't read any more. I felt physically sick at the prospect. I screwed the paper up and threw it into the waste paper basket.

"Good god," said Edith, "it's even worse than last time. He didn't have an itinerary last time. This is going to be a nightmare. What was I thinking?"

"What was _he_ thinking, more like." I said, more to myself than to Edith. "The man is obsessed."

Edith frowned.

"You could always _cancel." _

"Are you joking?" I said, "I love basilicas. I wouldn't miss this for the world."

Sybil looked confused. "What is a basilica?"

I honestly had no idea. I made my excuses and left without answering her.

I've been trying to think of ways to make the church visits more bearable, but I'm struggling for ideas. Although I suppose, with Granny breathing down my neck and Edith's spiteful barbs, I doubt I'll be completely bored. I thought maybe I could orchestrate some time alone with Matthew, but after a while I gave up on this idea too. Judging by the misty look Matthew gets in his eyes when he talks about church architecture, I doubt I could hold his attention for too long before he starts panting about brickwork again. And i'm certainly not going to fight a medieval tabernacle for my darling's affections. Especially since I'm not even sure I could win.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: **_I tried to upload this chapter a couple of times yesterday, but it wouldn't let me. I can't tell whether it's the website's fault or my laptop's fault, or whether it has something to do with the fact that the internet connection in this house pre-dates the Reformation, but either way I'm sorry for your wait. _

_A very special thank you to whoever nominated me for a Highclere Award! This little story is currently a runner in the 'Humour/Crack fic' category. That actually made me smile. I mean, I know this story has it's ups and downs, but I promise you I'm not on crack. Julian Fellowes might be, but I can't vouch for that. Anyway, do go and do some voting, even if you're not voting for me. Support your friendly, neighbourhood fanfic authors. There is some genuine talent in these polls, and these guys deserve a little kudos. :) _

* * *

**20th February 1913**

The day of the church visits. I knew this was going to be a bad idea from the moment I woke up.

The itinerary Matthew had provided for us stated that our church visiting adventure was supposed to start at nine o'clock in the morning, so you can imagine my surprise when the man in question actually turned up at the house at six, clean-shaven and dressed for a day of strenuous exercise. In contrast to this, I had to be woken up and rolled out of bed by Anna, who then proceeded to dress me even as I was still falling asleep on my feet. I don't know what it is about Matthew Crawley that makes him so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at inhuman hours of the morning, but I intend to put a stop to it. Being an early riser really makes for the worst possible trait.

Actually, I might add that to my list.

**Reasons Why Mary Crawley and Matthew Crawley Could Not Possibly Marry: **

**1. It would be playing into Granny and Papa's hands, (there's nothing I hate worse). **

**2. The Pamuk Incident.**

**3. He already has a legion of admirers who would plot to assassinate me at the drop of a hat, (including but not limited to: Edith, Mags, that girl who works in the Butchers, Thomas and Isis). **

**4. ****I'm fairly certain he doesn't want to marry me, (see also his comments when we first met, re: 'they're clearly going to push one of the daughters at me...', etc). (Actually, ****I'm not quite so sure about this point now. Maybe it still applies? He's so confusing). **

**5. We argue about everything. We'd kill each other in less than a week. **

**6. Cousin Isobel as a Mother-in-Law? Say no more. **

**7. He needs a sweet-natured, obedient wife. He would inevitably regret marrying me **

**8. MIDDLE CLASS. **

**9. He likes madeira cake.**

**10. He wakes up too early.**

**11. His passions are inflamed by visiting churches. I refuse to marry a man who gets erotically charged by stone masonry. **

**12. The Pamuk Incident. I know this is already on the list, but it's so terribly important that I thought it should be written down twice. Matthew and I_ cannot_ be together. **

When I finally made it to the breakfast table, the dark circles under Edith's eyes told me that my sister was no better at rising early than I was. And Matthew – such a handsome boy, and otherwise perfectly charming in every single way - was so unerringly talkative that I was seriously considering shoving a napkin down his throat to get him to stop. Really, Matthew? You want to talk about basilicas before eight o'clock in the morning? Can I at least finish my cup of tea first?

Every so often he'd tap his watch and remind us about the time. It's seven am, he'd say. It's seven-thirty. It's nearly eight. Where's your grandmother? It's nearly nine o'clock. Which just goes to show that Matthew has learnt almost nothing since moving to Downton. When he insisted in showing me his pocket watch again, ("It's ten past nine, Mary! We should have set off by now!"), I felt obliged to ask him what he set his watch by.

Matthew blinked, "Why, by Greenwich Mean Time, of course."

Edith and I exchanged a look.

"Well, there's your mistake then. Granny doesn't run on Greenwich Mean Time. She runs on 'Granny Time'."

"Oh, I see. So when does 'Granny Time' dictate that she's going to turn up?"

A foreboding voice from the doorway, "Whenever I feel like it."

Granny cuts quite an imposing figure, in her outdated Victorian fashions and dark crinolines. As per usual she had her walking stick with her, which almost never bodes well because everyone in the family knows she can walk perfectly fine. We can only assume she carries it when she anticipates she'll have to hit someone with it, which she does frequently and without reserve. Standing behind Granny was Cousin Isobel. There was something very menacing about the way the two of them were smiling together. It was a very aggressive sort of smile. The smile of two foxes, sitting in a hen house.

"Are we already to get going then?" said Isobel.

Matthew tried not to look horrified. "Mother, you're coming too?"

"Of course," she said, "I wouldn't miss this for the world. You know how much I love church architecture."

Matthew folded his arms. You didn't have to be an expert in body language to realise that Matthew Crawley was suspicious. Come to think of it, I didn't remember his mother as being a great advocate of church architecture either.

"Besides," Isobel was saying, "I heard that Mary and Cousin Violet were coming too, and I thought to myself, 'Why do they get all the fun'?"

Translation: I overheard Cousin Violet trying to scupper Edith's plans for seducing you and therefore providing me with grandchildren, so I thought I'd intervene. Granny shot her an irritated look, which was all I needed to know I had interpreted the situation correctly. Matthew's mouth was set in a very tight, thin line.

"I'd hate to drag you all the way across town, when I know your back has been so _bad,_ Mother."

Isobel smiled, "My back hasn't been bad."

"Yes, it has. _Remember?"_

Translation: Go home, Mother. I'm a grown man and you're embarrassing me.

"No," she said, cheerily, "I don't know what you're talking about."

I wasn't particularly bothered that Cousin Isobel was joining us on our outing, given that we already had two of the most formidable chaperones in recorded history, (Edith and Granny). Edith actually looked quite delighted, and took Cousin Isobel's arm.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" she said, "The more, the merrier, surely?"

"That's just what I think." said Isobel.

"Besides," Edith said, linking Matthew's arm as well, "If you get bored, Cousin Isobel, Mary would be happy to keep you company. Architecture isn't really her thing." Oh really, Edith? Then what is "my thing"? Because I'm starting to think it might be sororicide.

Three hours later, and it was a miracle I hadn't killed anyone. Between Granny and Isobel's squabbling, Edith's repeated attempts to flirt with Matthew, _("Oh Matthew, how do you know all this? You're so smart!"),_ and the man himself, who seemed to be particularly infatuated with a bronze inscription that had been erected by Reverend White in the Blahteenth Century, I was ready to scream. Any other time I might have thought his interest was adorable, but as it was I was already in a foul mood and his neglect was doing nothing to curb my temper. I honestly think I could have ran up and down the aisles naked and no one would have even noticed. I was almost tempted to try it.

I decided, then and there, that I don't much like being ignored. And I wasn't the only one who was waning.

"Mary, dear," said Granny, "which church is this one again?"

"Who cares?" I said, grumpily, at the same time Edith chipped in with, "St Bede's, Granny!"

Granny and I watched as Matthew wandered from one side of the church to the other, inspecting the engravings on the ceiling, running his fingers along the pews in a gesture that could only be described as wistful. I hate to sound like a jealous wife, but he has never looked at me "wistfully". Edith, of course, was following him. For all of Matthew's objections to Edith, they seemed to be getting on quite well.

"We've been doing this for_ hours." _I sighed. Really, I just wanted to go home. I didn't know how much more of this I could take. I'm sure Matthew wanted to be left alone with the object of his affection anyway, (the church, that is. Not Edith).

"He doesn't seem to tire out easily, does he?" said Granny.

"No, he doesn't." I said.

Granny wandered after Isobel, who was trying to encourage Matthew and Edith to climb to the top of the church tower together to 'enjoy the view'. Edith looked set to agree, but not for the first time Granny was ready to put a stop to their plans. Alone, up a romantic church tower, unsupervised? Not on her watch.

Sighing, I took a seat in the nearest pew. I couldn't take another argument. I stared ahead of me at the altar – at the overbearing figure of our Lord, suspended on the cross. I thought about Kamal Pamuk. I wondered if there was an afterlife. And if there was, I wondered if I was damned. It couldn't be much worse than this, surely?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Matthew said. He had come to stand beside me and I hadn't even noticed.

I pretended to be lost in thought. Matthew said my name again, and then touched my shoulder when I didn't answer him.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine." I said. Even my voice sounded tired. "I think I should take Granny home after this. She's feeling tired, and if I'm being honest then so am I."

"Oh." He sounded disappointed. "Never mind. We'll drive you both back straight away."

"No, don't be silly. You wanted to see the churches. Granny and I will go, you three can stay here."

"But-..." Matthew looked shocked, then hurt. "You're going to leave me here?"

"Yes-..."

"With _Edith?"_ his words made me suddenly angry. Furious, even. The anger burned up in me like a blast furnace. That Matthew could spend the entire day practically skipping hand-in-hand with my sister, and then turn around at the last minute and insult her? Four hours of being ignored finally started to weigh on me. Edith was my sister. The only person who gets to insult her is _me._

Matthew caught my facial expression and withdrew his hand.

"Yes, Matthew." I said, coldly. "With Edith. Is that a problem?"

"It's just..." he seemed to be lost for words, "...you were upset the other day that they were trying to set me up with her. And now you want me to spend time alone with her?"

"Why not? You didn't seem to mind earlier, when the two of you were laughing over some latin text."

"_'Some latin text?'_" Matthew's voice was rising. He was getting annoyed now. Seriously annoyed. And I was glad. At least when he was angry I had his full attention.

"Mary," he said quietly, "the only reason I came here today was because of you. I could have stayed at home. At least then I could have got some work done."

"Well, maybe you should have."

For a moment, Matthew looked like he was going to start shouting. In the end, he didn't shout. His shoulders dropped, and he shook his head and as he turned to walk away from me, he said, "Why does everything have to be such a battle with you?"

I watched his back as he walked.

"What's wrong?" I heard Isobel say to him, "Is something the matter?"

"No." he saying, with faux-cheerfulness. "I think we're seen enough churches for the day, don't you? Cousin Mary is starting to get a headache."

I could have sworn I heard Granny mutter "Oh, thank god."

We didn't talk on the car journey back. Matthew had decided to sit next to Edith in the car, and I couldn't decide whether he was doing it because he wanted to or if he was just doing it to provoke me. It was a moot point, really. Because this whole argument was compounded by the sudden, crashing realisation that Mama was right. Edith would make a much better wife for Matthew than I would. Plain Edith. Plain, virtuous, boring Edith, who would never have allowed herself to be deflowered by a turkish diplomat. Who didn't argue with everything that Matthew said, who liked all the same stupid, boring stuff that Matthew liked, and who certainly wasn't prone to the same obscene, unladylike thoughts as her older sister.

As much as I hated to admit it, Edith would make a loyal wife. Edith was the wife that Matthew deserved, and the thought made me furious, and then sick, and then furious some more. Maybe Matthew and Edith weren't going to marry, but Matthew had to marry someone, and that someone couldn't be me. I could never be that wife, not matter how much I wanted to be.

And for the first time, I could admit to myself that I _did_ want to be. And it hurt.

We went home, and we still didn't talk. We took tea in the Library, and we still didn't talk. Matthew went home, and we still didn't talk. Which, now that I think about it, is probably for the best.

* * *

**21st February 1913**

There's something I remember Granny saying a few years ago. Mama and Papa had been fighting over something trivial - I could only have been about eight or nine years old at this point– and I have a very vivid image in my head of my mother, red-faced and furious, wringing her hands and cursing my father's name.

"I could kill him!" she said, as Carson watched on, nervously.

"I'm relieved to hear it." said Granny, "You couldn't claim to be seriously in love with him unless you wanted to murder him at least twice a week."

I don't know why I thought of that. But it seems apt.

* * *

**23rd February 1913**

The topic du jour over the breakfast table was Edith and Matthew. You can imagine how well this sat with yours truly. I couldn't seem to muster up much of an appetite in general, and so stuck to nibbling on dry pieces of toast. I hadn't slept. I hadn't heard from Matthew. Nobody seemed to notice much.

"It was a shame that your church visit was cut short the other day." Mama was saying to Edith, "Have you spoken to Matthew? I'm sure you can arrange something else with him."

The words made me physically sick. I said nothing. I had already decided to harden myself to the idea of Matthew marrying somebody else. I knew it was going to hurt, but I thought I could handle it.

"As a matter of fact," Edith said, "I thought I might call round there later."

Mama smiled, "What a lovely idea."

It was too much. I made a conscious effort not to listen. I tried to think loud thoughts to drown out the sound of Edith talking, and I had a little success with it. I wondered what Anna and Bates were up to. I wondered how Isis was doing. I started conjugating latin verbs. _Habeo, habes, habet. _That kept me going for a while.

Mama suggested she take a picnic with her. _Habemus, habetis, habent_. She could take him for a walk by the lake.

It was around this point that Carson brought in the morning post. I knew that Matthew and I were fighting, and that I had made up my mind that we couldn't be together, but still. It was not like Matthew to leave a conflict unresolved. He hadn't tried to call on me once. He hadn't written to me at all. And yet again, when it transpired that none of the envelopes in Carson's hands were addressed to me, I could have cried. Well, of course they weren't. It was stupid to expect anything.

Edith wondered if Matthew like ginger ale, or if she should bring some wine with her instead.

_Habebam, habebas... wait, was it habebat? Damn. _I slammed the toast down on the plate and walked out of the room.

"What was that about?" I heard Edith say, before I'd even left the room.

My mother's voice, kinder and more diplomatic, "Leave it be, Edith. Your sister has been through a lot lately."

"She could have eaten more than just the toast." Papa said, "What was wrong with the rest of the food on her plate? It's wasteful. I swear, that girl is too fussy to live."

'Too fussy to live.' So, there you are. I'm not even twenty years old and I've already got an epitaph.

* * *

**24th February 1913**

It rained today.

Claudius isn't feeding properly. Why does nothing seem to go right?

* * *

**25****th**** February 1913**

Still no letter from Matthew. I thought I might try and write to him – not to try to rekindle anything, you understand, more to set the record straight. I thought it might be the honourable thing to do. He should know the truth.

This is what I have come up with so far:

"_Dear Matthew, _

_I've been trying to figure out what went wrong on Wednesday. I suspect it was my fault. I don't know why I acted so strangely, I think I was just tired. I know you won't hold it against me. You're a good man, and I owe you an apology._

_But you see, that's the root of the problem. You are a good man. You're too good. There's something I've not told you. And the damnable thing about it is, if I didn't love you quite so much than I might have been able to lie to you about it and keep this pretense up indefinitely. But I can't lie to you. It's time to tell you the truth: it involves the Turkish Diplomat that came to stay here, Kemal Pamuk. _

_You see, I am not a virtuous woman... _**No, thats's not right.**

_I'm not who you think I am... _**NO.**

_Please don't leave me...__"_

Oh, who am I fooling? This letter will never get posted.

* * *

**27th February 1913**

It has been one week since Matthew and I last spoke. Papa, of course, is furious with me. He knows Matthew and I are not talking, and of course he assumes its my fault. He's right, of course, but it's annoying that he'd just make that assumption. What he doesn't know is that Matthew and I "not talking" is probably the best thing that could ever have happened to his precious heir.

I spend a lot of my days walking around the gardens or feeding Claudius with milk from a pipette. The little mite is still not doing terribly good. Anna and I take it in turns to look after him. The other puppies are, irritatingly enough, fine.

Papa is having a garden party tomorrow. The sun is shining, the grass has been cut, and they're already setting up large, white canopies in the garden. Carson has been dealing with the champagne delivery this morning, and no one has seen him for hours. I must say, I'm not looking forward to this at all. There's only so much fake smiling a girl can do. Oh god, what if Anthony Strallan is there? Am I going to have to talk about farming equipment again?

And of course, Matthew will be there. I'm desperate to see his face, but with everything so 'up-in-the-air' at the moment, I don't know how he'll react when he sees me. I know he's too well-mannered to snub me, but what if all he can manage is cold-politeness? Indifference, even? I think that would finish me. I don't even know how I'll react when I see him.

Oh well, this was my stupid idea, I suppose. I was the one who decided he could do better for himself.

* * *

**28th February 1913**

The Garden Party, it turns out, was a tremendous bore. Again, the sun was shining, the livery was pressed, and every dreary neighbour within a ten mile radius turned up and was squiffy off champagne before the clocks even chimed noon. It was, of course, time for the blue dress. Tight around the bodice, but otherwise very light and airy. But what does that matter? I have no one to wear it for.

To make matters worse, Mama had invited Rupert Huff - his father has a baronetcy and owns most of Cheshire, and we used to play together as children. Or rather, he and Patrick used to play together as children and I used to follow them around, demanding to be allowed to join in. How times have changed. Today, _he_ seemed to be following _me. _There was no getting away from him. He followed me from tent to tent, asking me countless personal questions and plying me glass after glass of champagne. I didn't drink any of it, of course. I poured ever drop of it on to the grass as soon as he wasn't looking. But he was not to be detered.

This year's party seemed to be bigger than ever. I thought I'd never spot Matthew, and when I did it nearly knocked me off my feet. Crisp white shirts, and ruffled blonde hair, the skin on his nose slightly pink from where he had caught the sun.

Aunt Rosamund, who had been conversing with Rupert about the social scene in London, followed my line of sight until she caught what I had been staring at, and laughed.

"Oh, is that Cousin Matthew? I haven't met him yet, but I'm told he's very nice."

"Who?" Rupert said, straining his neck to see.

When I didn't answer either of them, Aunt Rosamund said, "Not bad. He looks very clean today, doesn't he?"

He did look clean. Gloriously, devastatingly, _fuckably_ clean. God, I was embarrassing. My longing had to have been written all across my face. Rupert dealt with the situation the only way he knew how, by running to fetch me another glass of champagne. I knew I was making an idiot of myself, but the funny thing is I couldn't seem to stop myself staring. Rosamund said something about introducing her, but I couldn't quite make my legs move. It was inevitable, really. I was staring so long and so hard that of course Matthew was going to look up at some point and...

... see me.

He froze. I froze. He managed a polite smile and a nod, and I returned the same. That was about all we could do. I think my heart broke.

Someone touched my arm. It was Aunt Rosamund.

"Come along," she said, kindly. "Let's see if we can't find Sybil. I'm dying for a good, girly catch-up."

An hour or so later, and I'd engaged in about twenty different conversations and yet not absorbed a single word of any of them. I had been ducking out of view from Rupert for most of this time, and now I found myself trapped in a conversation with Papa and Sybil about the Liberal Candidate. The conversation was starting to get quite heated. I found myself wondering if I could fake a migraine and go indoors for the rest of the party. Surely, no one would question me?

That's when I heard it.

"My Lord! My Lord!" We all turned around to see the chauffeur, Branson, hurrying across the grass and heaving something along with him. He looked quite pleased with himself. I couldn't tell what he was carrying at first. It looked wooden. Then I realised as he got closer exactly what it was, and for the first time in days I almost smiled.

"I'm sorry to bother you, My Lord," said Branson, "But I found this in the back of the garage, and Mrs Hughes thought you might like me to leave is out for the guests at the garden party?"

"What's this?" said Papa, dropping his eyes to what he was carrying. When he realised what it was, he was horrified.

Sybil smiled. "The old croquet set! We should have a game."

"No." Papa said.

"Oh please!" said Sybil.

"What's wrong?" said Branson, looking between Papa and Sybil in confusion. I realised what this must have looked like to an outsider. To Branson, this must have looked like an ordinary croquet set. Papa's horrified face was starting to attract attention now. Granny, as always, was the first to march over to our group and demand an explanation, followed by a couple of guests and then Matthew.

"I'm sorry Branson, but don't take this the wrong way," said Papa, "you're still very new here. Put the set back in the garage and we'll say no more about it."

Matthew tapped one of the mallets with his foot. "But it's out now. Why don't we have a game?"

"Yes." Sybil agreed, enthusiastically.

"You don't understand." Said Papa.

"It's Crawley Croquet." I said.

It was the first sentence I've said to Matthew in over a week. He regarded me, curiously.

Eventually he said, "And what's the difference between 'Crawley Croquet' and normal croquet?"

"In 'Crawley Croquet', it's every man for himself."

A few of the guests tittered. Papa didn't find it funny. He knew the severity of the situation.

"Let me guess," Matthew said, "you cheat."

"Oh no." Sybil said, cheerfully, "we all cheat." Which was the understatement of the century. Maybe it's true that Edith and I cheat at croquet but when Sybil cheats it's somehow, I don't know, worse. Maybe it's because she's so nice the other 364 days of the year. There's only one day when she becomes undisguisedly malevolent, and that's when she gets one of those mallets in her hand.

Taking Papa's arm, Mama said, "I think I'm getting too old for this."

"How about it, Mary?" said Sybil, "Just one more game. For old time's sake?"

I thought about it for exactly four seconds. Actually, a game of Crawley Croquet could be just the ticket. I had so much pent-up hurt and aggression from the past few days, (months, even. Maybe even years?), that hitting something with a mallet could only be described as 'therapeutic'. I made sure to grab the red mallet before Edith had a chance to show up. The red one has always been mine, so naturally Edith tries to take it. Sybil, as always, went for the green.

Matthew, without realising what he was getting himself in for, grabbed the blue. Both Sybil and I stared at him.

"What?" he said, "I'm quite good, actually. I hope you girls don't mind a little friendly competition?"

I was so nervous, I could barely string two words together. For god's sake, I had to remind myself, this was only _Matthew._ Still, I had anticipated a simple, (albeit bloodthirsty), game with my sister and now with Matthew standing over my shoulder, I knew I wouldn't be able to relax. Part of me wanted to tell him that he couldn't play. That it was a Downton tradition, and he wouldn't understand the significance. Anything to get rid of him. _Anything._

Another, darker side to me really wanted him to play. It wanted to drink in the sight of him and watch the muscles in his back move with every swing he took. It was a side to myself that I couldn't afford to indulge. But no, it was more than that. I wanted him to play and be absolutely _annihilated_. If beating Sybil at croquet would have been therapeutic, than beating Matthew at croquet would have been down right glorious. Crawley women are naturally competitive.

The look Sybil shot him was almost sympathetic. There's really nothing 'friendly' about this competition.

"I'm sorry Matthew," she said.

"For what?"

My face hurt. It realised it was because I was grinning. I can't imagine what such a grin must have looked like, but it felt bloody gleeful.

"You don't stand a chance."

He quirked an eyebrow. He didn't look amused.

"That's what you think. I know how to cheat too, thank you very much."

I doubted that very much. St Matthew, know how to cheat? He wouldn't know where to begin. Already, I was fairly confident I had this game in the bag. Branson, who was starting to look really worried, had stepped away from the croquet set as it was cursed. Mama and Papa were retreating back to the safety of the sandwich tent, encouraging the rest of the guests to follow suit. They clearly didn't want their neighbours to see the blood bath that was about to ensue. Edith, however, was on her way over here. This meant if the third Crawley sister was to join us, she'd have to either be the yellow mallet or the brown.

Sybil shook her head, "Edith won't like being either colour."

"But she'd prefer to be yellow, I think." I said, before picking up the yellow mallet and ball and pushing them into Branson's arms. "Take this back to the garage. Quickly."

He looked in his arms, confused. Edith was getting closer.

_"Branson!" _I hissed, and suddenly he was moving across the field with alacrity

Matthew looked exasperated. "Really, Mary."

I shrugged. _"_I told you, Matthew._ Every man for himself."_

He smiled, despite himself and I couldn't help but smile back. The relief was palpable. We were talking again, and it was quite simply _marvellous._

_TBC_


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note:**** Hi! I'm not dead. Yes, I know it's been awhile, but I've had a guest staying with me for a couple of weeks, so writing has not been the easiest task. **

**Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who voted for me in the Highclere Awards! I can't believe I won. I feel like the luckiest fic writer ever. And congratulations to all the other winners too. Check out the winner's page, there are some good stories on there. :) **

**I hope you enjoy the following chapter. Comments, bribes and Dan Stevens jokes are always welcome, 'kay? **

* * *

**28th February 1913 continued...**

It was Sybil and I who set up the hoops. Whilst the rest of the garden party carried on, oblivious to the anarchy that was about to unfold before them, I was hammering croquet hoops over tree roots and in marshy areas, determined to make the game as difficult as possible.

A small crowd had already gathered to witness the game. Matthew was there, obviously, swinging the blue mallet from side to side and glaring at me in a way that somehow managed to break my heart and infuriate me at the same time. What did he have to be so angry about, anyway? Aside from the fact that being thrown over by me is probably the luckiest escape for any man in recorded history, this is the first time he has appeared to be even remotely bothered about it.

Not that I'm bitter about that, you understand.

Edith and her brown mallet sat on the grass, next to Anna and Branson, watching us set up the rest of the course. O' Brien leant against a tree, talking to Thomas and pretending not to be interested. In the background, the sound of laughter and clinking champagne glasses. I had hidden the final hoop under a thorn bush, quite a distance away from where anyone could see me and, safe in the knowledge that no one would be able to find it, I straightened my skirts and headed back towards my sisters. Edith was chatting to Matthew, who seemed to be testing the weight of his hammer in his hands. The urge to smack the both of them over the head with my own mallet was nearly overwhelming, but I managed to suppress it. At this point, my greatest defense was pretending I didn't care. Approaching the group, I smiled my sincerest, most charming smile. My 'aren't I a darling?' smile.

"All done!" I announced to the group at large. "Let the battle commence!"

The only enthusiastic response came from Sybil.

Nearly an hour later, and I was in fine spirits. The constant mood swings and unladylike language of all participants had long since scared off our previous audience, and the game had led us through a dense wooded area, behind the old mausoleum. I wasn't winning of course, (Sybil was. Who could doubt it?), but perhaps more importantly, Edith was losing and Matthew wasn't doing that much better.

Matthew, who had divested himself of his blazer and tie at this point and had rolled the sleeves up to his elbows in the unseasonable warmth, was concentrating very hard on taking his shot. He was miles away from his goal however, and his swing was somewhat impeded by Sybil knocking his elbow at the exact moment he was supposed to hit the ball.

"Sybil!" he cried.

His ball rolled right off course and nearly hit mine, which was not much further ahead. Sybil smiled innocently.

"Oops." was all she said.

"Again," Matthew fumed, "that was cheating. I told you not to do that."

"And again," Sybil explained to him, patiently, "this is Crawley Croquet. There's no such thing as 'cheating'. You need to get in the spirit of things."

Matthew stormed after his ball, muttering something about 'Crawley women being the death of him', or something to that effect, whilst Edith tried to take her shot and Sybil and I took turns having very loud and very unconvincing coughing fits right next to her ear. Not surprisingly, my sister missed her mark.

"I hate you both." she hissed, and I nearly had to bite the end of my mallet to stop myself from laughing.

"Your turn, Mary." said Sybil, linking my arm. We walked over to my ball, which was sitting quite close to Matthew's ball, actually, and as we passed the sullen solicitor, Sybil leaned in to me and whispered, "It's good to see you smiling again."

I waved the mallet at her.

"Just to warn you," I said, "if you come within nudging distance of me whilst I'm taking my shot, I'm hitting you on the head."

She threw up her hands, all innocence.

"Would I do that?" she grinned, before walking ahead, through the trees, to find her own green ball.

"I would." Said Matthew, deadly serious. And he looked like he meant it, too. I held up my mallet, defensively. _Just try it, Crawley._

"Take your shot, Mary!" said Edith.

I had two choices. I could have taken my shot and quite easily have made the next hoop with no trouble, as well as putting a bit of distance between my ball and Matthew's. Alternatively, I could choose to knock Matthew's ball out. No, better than that, we were in a clearing of grass by the lake, and if I put a bit of muscle behind it, I could easily hammer Matthew's ball into the middle of the lake and effectively block him from even being able to play the game. I looked at his ball, and I looked at the lake. No, I couldn't. _Could I?_

"Don't you _dare." _he said.

That settled it. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I positioned my ball exactly how I wanted it, lined it up perfectly...

"_Mary." _he warned.

I swung, hard. Both our balls, red and blue, went sailing into the lake, and I threw up my hands and cheered. I'm not sure what came over me, but oh god, it was wonderful.

Matthew and Edith looked at me like I'd lost it.

"You realise," Edith said, "that you've basically knocked yourself out of the game too?"

"I DON'T CARE!" I said. And I didn't. It was worth it, to finally be able to win one battle over Mr Matthew "perfect" Crawley.

"You're completely mad." said Matthew.

"I know!" I said, and jumped for joy – actually jumped. Edith and Matthew exchanged an irritated look, but said nothing. I didn't care. Victory was sweet.

Edith and I followed Sybil and watched her take her shot, then watched as Edith whacked her ball too hard and sent it sailing off into the wilderness. We has gotten a little further ahead than Matthew, and I was starting to wonder where he had got to. Then the worry started to set in. I knew he was angry with me when we first started playing, but he hadn't so much as cracked a smile throughout the entire game. And if he wasn't willing to enter into the spirit of things, then why agree to play at all?

The unwelcome thought that maybe, just maybe, Matthew _hated me_ began to creep in. Was knocking him out the game a step too far? Oh god, I couldn't bear that. I didn't want him to hate me. I made my excuses and wandered back towards the clearing by the lake, looking for Matthew. Nothing. Nothing but a calm lake and a clear blue sky and the sounds of my sisters arguing and cheering in the distance.

I wasn't prepared for what happened next.

Matthew broke from the surface of the water, ruining the tranquility of the moment and just about giving me a heart attack. I was just about to yell him when I took in his appearance as he treaded water. His dark blonde hair, plastered to the side of his face. His white shirt, nearly translucent in the water. Oh my.

I tried very hard not to look. I looked at the ground. I looked at the croquet hoop. I looked at the sky. I tried to muster up a sentence.

"I was..." I was, what? "We were wondering were you got to." I said, to the sky.

"Were you?" was the sullen reply.

"Yes." There was a moment of silence that could have lasted for five seconds or five minutes, I genuinely couldn't tell. I risked a glance at Matthew, who hadn't moved. His eyes seemed somehow bluer next to the surface of the water and the cloudless skies. I didn't realise I was holding my breath until I gulped for air. "And there you are. I'll let Sybil know."

"Mary, _wait..."_

The word 'wait' was a bit moot, seeing as I hadn't made any effort to move my feet and doubted I was capable of doing so. It was just so, so... strangely erotic, to see him floating there, with a fine sheen of water on his pale skin. Knowing that if he were to just to climb out of the lake, I could see the outline of his body so much clearer. The curves of his hip and his lower back, the shadows of his light dusting of chest hair. Chest hair? Strange how I had never thought about that until now. Of course Matthew would have chest hair. Most men do, don't they? I found myself staring at his chest.

No, don't stare. Bad. This was very bad.

"I should go." I said, again, without moving.

"You should stay." He insisted. I gulped. "I was just looking for my ball."

"I'm sorry?"

"My croquet ball. Remember? You catapulted it into the lake?"

"Oh yes. Of course."

He swam a little closer to the edge of the lake, and without telling them to, my legs moved closer to the lake too, trying to get closer to him. I knelt by the edge, careful not to get my skirts dirty. From this angle, I could just about see everything. Matthew's shirt tails billowing witchily in the waters, the wet fabric above the surface clinging to every muscle and stretch of skin. The pinkness on his nose where he had caught the sun. A drop of water rolled down his neck and pooled above one of his collar bones, and I was overcome by the sudden urge to lick it off. The frisson – the sheer _want_ of it all – nearly floored me. But, alas, I had promised myself I wasn't going to lust after Matthew Crawley anymore. That, and I shudder to think what kind of biological cultures lived in that lake. Nothing ruins an amorous atmosphere like dysentery.

I focused on smoothing out my skirts. Matthew, treading water, watched me.

"I just want to know _why, _Mary. Is it something I've done?"

"Why I catapulted your ball into the lake?"

That wasn't what Matthew was talking about and I knew it. He huffed, impatiently.

"No!" he said, "Why have you shut me out? I thought we were well-matched, weren't we? I know you've been confused about your feelings, and I'm more than happy to be patient for you..."

"I'm not confused." I snapped. And I wasn't. I knew exactly how I felt and it killed me.

"Well," Matthew said, "that makes one of us."

I rolled my eyes. "Everybody is bring so droll today."

"Just..." Matthew exhaled, slowly, "... just tell me why. Was it something I did? Was it because I was talking to Edith? Because you know the only-..."

"It's not because of that."

"-... the _only_ girl for me is you." Matthew finished, insistently. "You know that, don't you?"

I think I did. My eyes were welling up with tears and the lace on my gloves was beginning to blur before my very eyes. I peeled off the gloves defiantly and threw them on the grass. A wet hand reached out and touched mine, and I could feel every muscle in my body tensing. The frisson again. The wanting. Oh, Matthew. I couldn't bring myself to look at him.

"My Mary." he said. "Give me a chance. One chance. That's all."

I couldn't take my eyes off that hand.

"You don't understand." I said, "It's not you. I'm the one who's in the wrong. I want to be with you, but I can't lead you on like this without telling you the truth about who I am, and I can't tell you the truth about who I am without..." I felt my voice begin to choke, and I hated it. "...without you hating me."

Matthew smiled, but it was a sad smile.

"After everything we've been through, how could you think I'd hate you?"

"But you would. Even I hate myself, a little bit."

"Just tell me. We tell each other everything, don't we?"

"I don't know if I can."

I looked at him, and his blonde hair almost looked brown when it was wet. His eyes never left mine. I felt an almost intense kind of pride, to be the object of this man's study. To be scrutinised by Matthew Crawley is a wonderful thing. He really was the most handsome man I had ever seen

"I can't tell you. Not now. I don't want to ruin this moment."

Matthew looked so sad. And then there was something else on his face – a fleeting look of mischief, before his hand tightened on my wrist and he pulled me into the lake with him. I screamed on my way down, and as a consequence swallowed a mouthful of dubious-looking lake water, and after a minute of thrashing about and spluttering, Matthew laughing at me all the while, I started to smack him on the chest, lightly at first and then gradually gathering my strength up. Still he chuckled.

"What was that for?!"

"Well, now the moment's already ruined. So you might as well tell me what's bothering you."

"Matthew Reginald Crawley!" I shouted and splashed him, violently. He splashed me back.

"That's what you get for smacking my ball into the lake."

"I thought you were a gentleman!" I started to hit him again, but he grabbed my wrists and pulled me close to him. I was effectively trapped against his body. Feeling the hard muscles of his body against mine did nothing to cool my ardour, despite the coldness of the water. My hair collapsed wetly against my face.

"You thought no such thing!" he said, "Now, are you going to tell me?"

I struggled, but it only made him tighten his grip.

"Certainly not! I'm cross at you now."

I was struggling a little in the water – the weight of my corset and underskirts were making it hard to stay afloat, even in these shallow waters. Matthew's arm snaked around my waist and helped keep me up. My hands, now freed, had no choice but to grip onto his shoulders for support. I felt the warmth of his breath on my cheek, the water dripping from my hair on to his lips.

"Alright. Well then, I'm going to kiss you now." he said.

"No you're not." I argued, quietly.

"I think I am. It can't be helped, I'm afraid."

"Even after everything I've said?" But I didn't get a reply. His lips were on mine, moving, teasing, and then one of his hands moved to the nape of my neck, playing with wet strands of my hair and causing me to shiver. I tried to sigh, but he was already there, deepening the kiss, making me giddy. My hands dug into his shoulders, trying to find some purchase. I didn't know it was possible to want anything as much as I wanted him. It occurred to me, belatedly, that as long as he wasn't talking, Matthew Crawley might very well be the most wonderful man in England. My skin flushed against his.

He pulled away and my lips tried to follow him.

"Just so we're clear," Matthew said, his voice husky, "nothing you could say could make me hate you. Ever."

"Are you sure about that?" I said, "Because I'm not."

"Good god, you're infuriating." He kissed me again, with more tenderness this time. I felt myself surrender to him, and I think he felt it too, because he held me against him, his face pressed against mine, his nose rubbing against my cheek.

"Alright." I said. "I'll tell you the truth. But, tomorrow. Not now. Let me have this moment, please."

I felt, rather than saw, Matthew smile against my face. His arms still clamped around me, I realised that my toes could just about touch the bottom of the lake.

"Very well." he said, "But I want you to know you can tell me anything. I could never hate you."

It was a sweet thing to say, but I'm fairly certain Matthew wasn't banking on me bedding a turkish diplomat when he said it. I did the only thing I could think of to do. I kissed him again, and I made it last as long as possible. One of his arms kept me locked in place, but his left arm began to wander, and I felt his fingers tracing lazy circles down my back, lower and lower, until... _oh my. _I gasped against his lips, and Matthew used to this opportunity to deepen the kiss further, teasing, and licking, and nipping at my mouth until the need to breathe became too much of an issue to ignore. He let me pull away from him, but his arm remained locked around my waist, and his left hand remained where it was, caressing my bottom. He squeezed it and I inhaled sharply, which earned me a chuckle.

"Good god, you're beautiful. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

His words seemed innocent enough, but the way he said them seemed to layer them with a different meaning. The huskiness of his voice, the way he whispered it - it made it sound like those words were a secret between just us two. I felt like his words were stripping me naked, and my skin began to blush. Matthew didn't relent. He held me close and whispered more secrets. He told me he wanted to kiss me all over. He wanted to make me feel loved.

"You already do." I whispered.

"No, you don't understand." he said, kissing my cheek. My nose. My eyes. "How could you? I'm mad for you, Mary. Just mad for you. You're all I think about._" _

I reached a hand up to brush the hair out his eyes and froze. Something was wrong.

I looked at the shore and my heart stopped.

Sybil and Edith, standing there, watching us on the shore. Sybil's mouth had dropped open. I genuinely think we'd shocked her. The past few months we had spent together alone at Downton, Matthew and I flirting under her very nose, and I don't think she'd even considered the possibility that we might become attached.

Edith, on the other hand, didn't look even remotely surprised. She did, however, look furious. I opened my mouth to say that it wasn't what it looked like and had to stop myself. I supposed that this was exactly what it looked like. Matthew and I swimming together and kissing in the lake. What is there to misconstrue?

Matthew, one arm still around me, the other parked firmly on my buttocks, had the good sense to look embarrassed.

"Mary fell in." he said, which was so obviously a lie that neither sister bothered to dignify it with a response.

"Well," Sybil said, finally, "I suppose I'm happy for you both..."

"I think an explanation is in order..." I began, but Edith had already turned on her heel and stormed off in the direction of the house. I felt an uncharacteristic pang of guilt. After all, it had been Mama's idea to try and fix up Edith and Matthew and I could only imagine what this must have looked like from her perspective. She didn't know that Matthew and I had been chasing after each other for weeks. Sybil watched Edith leave and turned to us, almost apologetically.

"I better go after her. You two should find somewhere to dry off."

I watched both my sisters leave with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Matthew released me, although not with any degree of alacrity. I crawled out of the lake and began to rinse out my skirts.

Oh god, I thought, what had we done?


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: ****Okay, just let me get all this pesky 'plot' and 'character development' stuff out of the way, and I promise next chapter I'll throw in some smut. **

* * *

**1st March 1913**

I have spent most of the morning waiting for all hell to break loose.

I was fairly confident that Sybil wouldn't expose my little 'indiscretion' to Mama and Papa, but there was no use bargaining with Edith, so I didn't even try. I learnt a long time ago that Edith Crawley can't be bought, bribed, blackmailed or reasoned with. As far as Edith was concerned, our little secret was as good as out. Now it's just a matter of _when_ she chooses to tell everyone.

The walk back from the lake yesterday evening was nothing short of ominous. I felt sick to my stomach, I was _sure_ Edith's first order of business was to track down Mama and tell her everything, and every sodden step Matthew and I took towards the house was one step closer towards doom. Matthew, in contrast to this, was practically whistling. It occurred to me that the idea of being forced into marrying me was not exactly abhorrent to him, and if I didn't know any better I could have sworn Matthew Crawley has orchestrated the whole thing from the beginning.

As we reached the side entrance to the house, I caught my reflection in one of the windows of Papa's library. My hair was still wet, half of it still clinging to the side of my face. My coiffure was still miraculously in tact, (a tribute to Anna's hair-styling skills), but it had fallen limply to one side. In short, my hair looked like it had squirrels nesting in it. I examined Matthew and concluded that even though his blonde hair was sticking up at odd angles, he didn't look nearly so dishevelled as I did. It hardly seemed fair. This whole thing was his fault anyway. And I'm not trying to imply that he had an obligation to look worse-off than I did, but at the very least he could have wiped that stupid smile off his face.

I stopped abruptly outside the door and crossed my arms. Matthew caught my movement and quickly schooled his expression into something more serious. But I wasn't mistaken. He had been smiling. No, he had been _smirking__._

"What's wrong?" he said, innocently.

"You know perfectly well what's wrong." I said.

"It's going to be alright." He said. "You know that whatever happens, I'm going to support you. We're in this together."

"That's as may be, but you don't have to look so pleased about it."

"I'm not pleased, per se. I just can't quite bring myself to be sad."

He almost made me laugh. _Almost. _But the horrible truth of it all was that I _did_ want to marry Matthew, but not like this. Not disgraced in front of my family and certainly not with the ghost of Pamuk hanging over our heads. I sighed and wondered if Matthew's idea of 'supporting me' would stretch to helping me dispose of my sister's dead body.

He smiled sheepishly, (but not quite apologetically), and said goodbye with a quick peck on my cheek. His lips lingered a little too long on my skin, the ghost of his warm breath against my cheek, and for one thrilling moment I thought he was going to press his suit further. Take me in his arms, maybe. Press me up against the wall. Kiss me with all the passion he had shown me that afternoon. My heart began to race, but still he pulled himself away, and I was left standing by the door, disappointed, nervous and still dripping with lake water. I ran upstairs to have a bath and get changed, and by the time I was all fixed up, the garden party was beginning to wind down.

I have been waiting for Edith to tell on me ever since. She never could resist getting me into trouble.

With this whole situation, breakfast this morning was a very tense affair. I ate almost nothing. Sybil pretended to pick at some toast and Edith, who seemed to be hell-bent on acting as if everything was perfectly normal, began to heroically attack a plate of eggs, whilst simultaneously refusing to meet my eye or talk to me or acknowledge that I exist. So no change there, then.

Crikey. I'm really in trouble now, aren't I? I'll keep you abreast of any further developments.

* * *

**11th March 1913**

Oh, my darling diary. So much has happened since I last updated you. I hardly know where to begin.

With everything that had happened with Edith, I had completely forgotten about my promise to Matthew, to meet up with him and talk to him about my 'Big Secret'. You can imagine my surprise then, when he turned up on our doorstep the day after the garden party, looking pale and petrified and barely able to meet Papa's eye. Matthew is a fairly sharp individual, and from Papa's cheerful manner it would have taken him less than a minute to deduce that my father knew nothing about our peu d'aventure dans le lac. Still, it was hard for Matthew to contrive a moment alone with me, especially with Edith glaring at the two of us from across the room.

What followed was about an hour and a half of awkward silence. Matthew agreed to take tea with Mama and Granny in the drawing room, and Papa said he would join them as soon as he had finished up some estate business with Jarvis. Somewhere around that time, Mama sent for me and my sisters to join them for tea. I tried several times to orchestrate a moment alone with Matthew, (mostly, I stood up and announced that I intended to go for a walk, but before Matthew could ask to accompany me, Mama sat me back down, presumably thinking I was trying to escape having tea with my grandmother). There was an awkward moment, when Mama had offered Edith the seat by Matthew on the sofa, but she didn't take it, and after that her palpable bad mood made maintaining almost any conversation in her presence difficult.

Eventually, Edith stood up, and without offering an explanation she walked out of the room and slammed the door.

"Mary," Mama said, "please fetch your sister and tell her to come back and apologise to Cousin Matthew. She was very rude to him."

I drank my tea and pretended not to hear her. That was such a bad idea, I didn't even know where to begin.

"It doesn't matter." Matthew said, "I don't mind."

"_I_ mind." Granny pointed out, "What on earth has gotten into her? Has she gone mad?"

"She's just having a bad day, Granny." Sybil said, diplomatically.

"I'll say. In the future I would prefer it if all histrionics were left to me." And then, to no one in particular, she added, "At my age, a lady has earned the right to act however she chooses."

Some more time passed. Sybil locked Granny into an argument about the length of women's necklines, and Matthew, who found he couldn't really engage in a real conversation with me without drawing attention to himself, kept making excuses to talk to me by offering cakes and sandwiches, even though they were sitting right in front of me and I was more than capable of helping myself. Eventually, when he ran out of cakes, I told him he looked very nice and asked him if his tie was new, even though I knew it wasn't. He pretended it was, just to keep the conversation going. We talked about ties for a while. It was excruciating.

After about half an hour, one of the footmen – William – walked into the room, and whispered something into Mama's ear. Mama looked briefly concerned, asked William if it was really necessary, and then made her excuses to leave the room.

"His Lordship has requested my presence in the library," she said with the air of a beleaguered wife, "I wonder what that's about?"

"Don't be too long." Granny said, as she was leaving.

Everyone seemed reasonably unconcerned, except me. I knew something wasn't right. It was not like Papa to summon her so abruptly, and certainly not when he knew she was entertaining guests. I looked at Sybil and she nervously looked back at me. Alright, so maybe I wasn't the only one who was worrying.

Matthew was about to offer me a scone for the third time when William, looking pale and rather shaky, re-entered the room. I thought for a moment he was going to approach Granny, but he didn't. To my horror, I realised he was approaching me.

"His Lordship has requested your presence in the library too, milady." he said. He tried to say it quietly, but everyone was looking at us and as I set my cup down on the table, it clattered in its saucer as my hands involuntarily began to shake. I stood up, slowly. Smiled to the rest of the room.

"Well," I said, nonchalantly, "this is all very mysterious. I wonder what this could be about?"

Matthew stood up too. He tried his very best to act aloof, but wasn't making a very good job of it.

"Perhaps I should come with you?" he said, "In case you need help?"

Granny was uncharacteristically silent, which should have been a warning sign that all was not quite right with the world. I almost shook my head at Matthew but stopped myself. I had a feeling I was in for the scolding of a lifetime, and I don't think I could have borne it if Matthew were to stand there and watch me be humiliated. Then it occurred to me that if Papa was going to force Matthew and I into a marriage, then this brief walk to the library would be all the time left that I had to tell him about Pamuk before he was forced into an engagement. I walked towards the door, and Matthew followed. William kept a discreet distance ahead of us.

So, this was it. This was the moment I was to be ruined.

I was all to aware that I didn't have much time. I opened my mouth to start talking to Matthew, but he hushed me.

"We don't have much time." He hissed. "This is our story – you fell in the lake and I jumped in to save you. Sybil will back us up. If we stick to that story we'll be fine."

I confess, this shocked me. It raised a lot of questions that didn't have time to get asked. Not least of all, didn't Matthew want to marry me? When did he find time to talk to Sybil? Was this the same Matthew Crawley who valued his honesty and integrity about all other attributes? There were other, more pressing questions springing into my head but for some reason the only one I managed to voice was, "How come I have to be the one that fell in? Maybe I was the one who rescued you."

"Not now." He hissed, and I found I was standing outside the library door. William knocked twice, and entered.

I swallowed, and before I could walk in Matthew took my hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Such a simple, reassuring gesture. My heart started dancing a two-step, and I had to remind myself to breathe, but I suddenly realised that as long as I had Matthew there to hold my hand, I could make it through this. He smiled, and I realised that I was smiling too.

"Remember," he said, "we're in this together."

I nodded, and we walked in. Together.

At first, no one seemed to notice our presence. William made himself scarce almost immediately, but no one else had the gall to meet my eye. Papa was standing by the fireplace, his back to me. Mama looked like she had been crying. Edith, sitting on the couch opposite Mama, refused to look up. I thought for a minute that she was still angry, but then I realised that she had been crying too. When she finally did look up at me, her eyes began to water again. She looked almost... regretful? That's when I knew things were bad. If it wasn't for Matthew's reassuring presence beside me, I don't know what I would have done.

"Well," I said, with a faux cheeriness that sank like a lead balloon, "you certainly seem like a miserable lot."

There was no answer to that, so after a moment or two Matthew chipped in with, "Robert? Are you alright? What's going on?"

Papa looked at him, rather shocked. He wasn't expecting Matthew to be here. He saw him standing by my side - standing almost defiantly close to me - and my father shook his head, sadly.

"I didn't want you to be here when we did this Matthew, but I suppose you have as much a right as anyone here to know. I'm sorry. I wanted to spare you the pain."

I couldn't take my eyes off Papa. He was so calm, it was frightening. It would seem that Matthew and I had walked right into the eye of the hurricane, so to speak. The calm before the next storm. Any minute now, Papa was going to lose his temper again.

"What pain?" Matthew's confusion was clear in his voice, followed closely by panic. "Robert, what are you talking about?"

I had a horrible feeling I knew what this was about. I saw what Papa was holding in his hands and my blood ran cold.

"Matthew," I said, "maybe you should wait outside. I'm not sure this matter concerns you."

"Doesn't concern him?" Papa said, and then, louder, "Doesn't _concern_ him? Then who does it concern, Mary? Poor Matthew has been nothing but nice to you, and you've led him a merry dance! The least you can do is tell him the truth!"

"I-..." my throat seemed to close up. I didn't know what I was going to say, even it hadn't. "I didn't mean..."

"Or maybe," Papa continued, "you could start by telling _me _the truth." He held up the object in his hand: a red, leather-backed book, half-filled with incoherent scribblings. My dear diary, it was _you_. My father had you in his hands. Rather than tell Papa what she had seen at the lake, Edith had opted to fish out my diary and hand it over to Papa, along with every long-held secret and inner-most thought I've held for the past year. Matthew's eyes followed the book, narrowed in confusion. Papa had gone the most peculiar shade of red.

"You've lied to me." He said. "You've lied to Matthew. You've had your own mother – my _wife_ – lie to others on your behalf. Now, once and for all , because I want to hear this from your own mouth."

He threw the diary onto the table in front of him. The noise as it hit the wood made us all flinch.

"What happened between you and the late Mr Pamuk?"


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note:**** I'm sorry, I promised you smut this chapter but alas, this chapter does not contain smut. I've been so busy lately that I've simply not been able to put the finishing touches on this chapter, so I've decided to post what I have written because making you all wait another week just seems... I don't know, mean. **

**So the _next_ chapter is smutty.**** This chapter is merely DRAMATIC. **

* * *

**11th March 1913**

I remember thinking that it was a kind of cruel irony – I'd spent my entire life trying to be the centre of attention, and now that everybody in the room had their eyes focused on me, I found that I did not care for it. There was silence for a moment. Nothing but the sound of blood rushing in my ears and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. I tried to speak, and no noise came out.

_Oh god,_ I thought. _Oh god, oh god..._

"Well?" Papa said, impatiently. I looked from Papa to Matthew, and back again. Matthew, his blue eyes already wide, waiting for me to speak. The sound of blood rushing in my ears, my heart turning over and cowering in my chest. Maybe I wouldn't be able to speak. Maybe I'd open my mouth and no sound would come out and then I wouldn't have to tell them anything at all._ Oh god. _It would've been so much easier if only Matthew would stop looking at me.

I cleared my throat and shuffled my feet. Still, he continued to look at me.

"I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later." I said, finally. My voice sounded strange, even to me. It sounded foreign – not like it had an accent or anything, but like it was somebody else's voice, somebody else's words, coming out of my throat. I found that once I had started, I couldn't stop. I just wanted to get the words out. I wanted this over with. "It's all true. I'm ruined."

I looked to Matthew. I thought he would look angrier, but he didn't. He looked confused.

"Ruined?" he said, "What on earth do you mean?"

I couldn't quite bring myself to answer him. It was Mama who came to my rescue, when she said, in an unsteady voice, "Last year, Mary has a brief affair with the turkish diplomat, Kemal Pamuk."

Matthew blinked. "Turkish diplomat? The one who died here?"

Oh god, classic Matthew. I tried to laugh, but the sound came out sounding strangled. "Of course the one who died here!" For god's sake, how many turkish diplomats did he think I _knew? _

I went on to point out, somewhat hesitantly, that I wasn't sure if my _'soir malheureux' _actually qualified as an 'affair', seeing I didn't even know the poor man for a full twenty-four hours before he passed away, and somewhere about halfway through my sentence it occurred to me that my pedantry wasn't always appreciated and I seemed to be painting myself into an even worse light, so I stopped. This was going horribly wrong. Oh god, it was all so horribly wrong. But then, it was always going to go horribly wrong, wasn't it?

There was another moment of awkward silence. My thoughts circled like sharks, and I couldn't find the words to give voice to anything I was thinking. Maybe that was a good thing. I looked to Edith, who seemed to be avoiding my gaze. Maybe that was a good thing too.

And, oh god, why did Matthew have to look at me like that? He looked stunned. Stunned and hurt. He reached an arm out and touched the back of the sofa, looking for some sort of support. Finding the back of the sofa somewhat lacking, he decided to find a seat and sit down.

"Kemal Pamuk." he said, simply. It was like he was testing the name out. "Kemal Pamuk." he said again.

Papa was seething. "I want to know why, Mary. What the hell were you thinking? Didn't we raise you better than this?"

I swallowed, hard. "You did."

"Then _why?_"

"I don't know."

"You're going to have to do a lot better than that." Papa's voice was dangerously quiet, "You could've ruined this family."

"But I _don't know_." I said, "It's not like I invited him up to my room. I swear, I had no idea what he had planned. He just turned up at my door and pushed his way in."

"You could have turned him out."

"I tried to, at first. I told him I would scream."

"Did..." Matthew's voice sounded very distant. He didn't look at me. He seemed to be staring at a spot on the far wall. "... did he force you?"

I thought about it. "No," I had to concede, "he didn't force me. In the end, it was my decision."

There was a moment of silence. The sound of the grandfather clock ticking, the birds outside. When Matthew next spoke, there was an edge to his voice, but whether it was from hurt or anger, I couldn't tell you.

"Did you love him?" He asked.

"No."

"Because if it was love..."

"No!" How could I have loved him, I hardly even knew him? Is that what Matthew thought? That I had been in love with Pamuk? I couldn't bear him to think that. But if it had been love, then what? Was Matthew trying to tell me he'd understand? Or he'd throw me over? _What?_ Oh, damn Matthew. This would be so much easier if he would only get angry. Damn, gallant, inscrutable, perfect Matthew.

"I don't know." I said, "Oh, god. I was just so _angry._" I went to rub my face and was shocked to find there were tears. Oh god, I hated crying. And, more importantly, I hate people seeing me cry. "I was angry about everything. Not just the entail, but my whole future was dependent on everyone else. My whole life was... I don't know. And then Kemal just walked in and he wouldn't leave and all I could think of was how everyone wanted me to be a good little woman and just stay out of the way. And then he... he..."

He died. I didn't have to say it. Kemal Pamuk died in my arms. The whole sordid event must have lasted a grand total of seven minutes. And now I was standing in the library, and crying _properly_ – real, gasping sobs. I was so consciously aware of my own stupidity, my own selfishness. I was so consciously aware of how pathetic this all this sounded.

I heard, rather than saw, my father soften.

"So you're sorry?" he said.

"I am." I said, "I'm so very sorry. But 'sorry' doesn't change anything."

"I don't know." Papa said, sadly. "It changes a few things, I think. And I suppose, you're not the first Crawley to make a mistake."

A mistake. Such an innocent choice of words. A mistake was writing the wrong address on an envelope, or counting out the wrong change, or losing your sister's earrings. This was no mistake, no accident of chance. This was the story of a young, angry woman and her poor decision-making. I looked at my notebook – you, my dear diary – sitting on the table, staring at me. I found my vision was somewhat blurred from all my unshed tears, but I couldn't quite tear my eyes away from it. I couldn't bring myself to look at Matthew. I couldn't bring myself to look at anyone.

Papa picked up the diary and handed it back to me.

"Make sure you burn this." he says. "We'll need to destroy all evidence that this ever happened."

I stared at the red book in his hands before snatching it back.

"You're not angry anymore?" I asked. It seemed too much to hope for. My father just sighed.

"I'm disappointed. You've disappointed me, Mary. Truly."

That stung like a slap in the face. I think I could have handled his anger better. And then I looked to Matthew, who was still staring at the wall. My heart just broke. His brow was furrowed, his handsome mouth pursed in concentration. He looked so confused, like he couldn't quite figure this whole thing out.

Papa said, "Matthew, I'm sorry you got dragged into all this. We'll have Branson drive you back, I'm sure you can appreciate we have some family business to take care of this afternoon. Edith, will you give Mary and I a moment alone. Cora – perhaps you can go and enlighten Mama about what has just transpired. She has as much right to know as the rest of us and she'll only make it her business to find out anyway."

Oh god, not Granny. Please not Granny. She'll kill me.

Edith and Mama stood slowly and made their way to the door, and I didn't watch either of them. I kept my eyes focused on the floor. If I looked at my mother, I thought I would burst into tears again. If I looked at Edith, I thought I was in danger of clawing her eyes out. I will never forgive Edith for what she's done. Of all the mean, vindictive, spiteful...

And to think, I was starting to feel sorry for her.

Matthew didn't move. After Mama had closed the door behind her and Edith, both Papa and I looked to Matthew, expecting him to rise to his feet and say his goodbyes. He didn't. He sighed, shook his head ruefully, and leant back on the couch.

"If it's all the same to you Robert," he said to Papa, "I think I'd rather stay. We have much to discuss."

"Matthew, my dear boy. I know this affects you deeply, but I would prefer that my daughter and I had a moment to-..."

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I'm not leaving. And whilst we're in the spirit of being truthful, I feel I should come clean as well. I haven't been completely honest with you either."

Well, that stopped me in my tracks. What could Matthew possibly say that could compare to the Pamuk incident? Oh god, he hadn't had an affair too, had he? _Had he?_ Oh god, with who? Not Mags? I felt ill. Ill, but not entirely insensible of how much I hated the idea that he had bedded another woman. It was hypocritical, but I couldn't help it. I could now add 'brazen hypocrite' to my growing list of faults.

Matthew took one look at my face and smiled. Actually smiled. And then I knew he'd interpreted my facial expression correctly because he said, "No, it's nothing like _that." _

"Then good god, Matthew. What is it?" said Papa, "I don't know if I could take any more revelations today."

Matthew sighed, leaning back into the couch.

"I already knew about Pamuk." He said.

I had to sit down. In fact, I didn't so much 'sit down' as I did collapse on the couch adjacent to his, my legs having mysteriously lost the use of their function. Papa looked just as shocked as I did. I didn't know whether I was going to laugh or cry of scream.

"What?" Papa said, "How? When?!"

"Well, alright," Matthew admitted, "I didn't know it was _Pamuk_. That was a bit of a shock. But when Mary had her riding accident, she said things. She made mention that she'd been less than virtuous." There was a choked sort of noise, and I was shocked to discover it came from me. Matthew turned to me now, addressing me directly. "You didn't give any particulars, only that you _'damaged goods' _and we couldn't be together and..." he smiled ruefully, "... others things. The truth is, we've already had this conversation, Mary. I already told you it doesn't matter to me."

I didn't remember any of this. Oh god, how mortifying.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew? Matthew, I've been worried sick."

"Don't you remember telling me?"

"No!"

"Oh."

I couldn't quite believe it. I've ben torturing myself for weeks. I've unburdened my soul to this man, and all I get is an 'oh'. I could kill him. I could actually kill him. There's not a jury in the land that would convict me. If Papa hadn't been there, I was convinced I would have leapt onto the couch and strangled him there and then.

Ignoring my murderous look, he added, "Anyway, it would be hypocritical of me to criticise you. I'm not exactly a vestal virgin myself."

At that point, the anger nearly bubbled out of me and I had to bite my tongue. To add insult to injury, here I was worrying myself sick over the Pamuk incident – flaggerlating myself mercilessly because I wouldn't be a pure spouse for Mr Perfect-Heir-Matthew – meanwhile, he's already done the dirty deed himself? No, I bet he's done it lots of times. Men do, don't they? It's only women who have to be chaste and innocent. And to top it all off - the icing on the cake - Matthew did not even seem the slightest bit bothered about the fact that I had 'romantic liaisons' with Pamuk. Honestly. I didn't want to break his heart but was a little bit of jealousy too much to ask for?

Papa had all but forgotten me. He was staring at Matthew, incredulous. "But, aren't you angry?"

"No, of course not." Matthew seemed to think for a minute, "So, _this _is what you wanted to tell me, Mary? This is The Big Secret you were hiding?"

"Yes, of course. What did you think it was going to be?" I practically growled.

"I don't know. Knowing you, it could be anything." He seemed rather pleased. "This is the reason you thought we couldn't be together?"

Well, I had actually compiled an entire list, but I didn't think that was worth mentioning at this juncture.

"Yes."

"And you have no other secrets to tell me?"

"No."

He brightened a little. "Alright." He said, "All's well that ends well."

All's well that ends well, my foot! I didn't know whether I was to kiss him or kill him. Papa cleared his throat.

"If you don't mind me saying," he said, "you seem to be surprisingly fine with finding out that my daughter has ruined herself, considering this document..." he indicated the diary "... seemed to imply that you and my daughter have some kind of understanding."

Matthew eyed the book in my hands. Realisation seemed to dawn on his face, when he recognised the book for what it was. A diary. My diary. "Did it, now?" he said, more to himself than anyone else.

"Ahem! My diary says nothing of the kind." Although perhaps if that is what my father chose to read it as, then I should have left it at that. Matthew seemed to have great trouble tearing his eyes away from the diary. Until now, it occurred to me, Matthew had not even been aware of it's existance. Now he was, and he was staring at it greedily, like it was the very Rosetta Stone itself. If he thought he was getting his hands on it, he was sorely mistaken. I hid the book behind my back, protectively, which seemed to shake Matthew out of his stupor.

"Anyway," Matthew continued, "I wouldn't say 'fine' is the right word. Naturally, I'm roaringly jealous. And I know your family can be very old fashioned Robert, but let's be honest here – it's _1913._ I think there are plenty of people who start to experiment sexually before they are married. And from what Mary has said, I don't think she's had a very enjoyable experience."

That was putting it mildly. It actually hurt like the Dickens, but I wasn't prepared to admit that just yet. The pained look on Papa's face told us exactly what he thought about Matthew's liberal ideas about premarital sex.

'Experiment sexually', indeed.

"Besides," he said, "she's not ruined. She told me the truth, even though it was clearly painful for her. She refused to lie to me. And in the grand scheme of things, that's..." he seemed to think of the right word, "... well, it's actually rather marvellous."

Papa smiled.

"So," Papa said, "are you prepared to marry my daughter then?"

"Well, yes. Of course!" Matthew said.

Oh, this was just _too much._

"Do I get a say in this?" I snapped.

Papa and Matthew both stared at me, dumbly. It was almost as if they had forgotten I was here. For one dangerous moment, it looked like Papa was going to say no, that I didn't 'get a say in this', seeing as the only reason we were having the conversation at all was because I had ruined myself. He stopped himself, though. Matthew looked taken aback. He looked genuinely hurt.

"Don't you want to marry me?" he said.

"Not like this, no!" This had to go down in history as the most unromantic marriage proposal of all time. There were no flowers, no getting down on one knee, not even a ring. In fact, the only reason Matthew seemed to be offering his hand in marriage was because my father was standing over him, and I don't think either of the gentlemen in question had actually thought I was required to offer an opinion.

Papa sighed. "You don't have much of a choice now, Mary. You must see that this changes everything. We need to get you settled, as soon as possible."

I folded my arms. If I'd thought about it for a minute, I would have reminded myself how much I loved Matthew and had, in fact, only earlier been brooding over the possibility that I might not ever be able to call him my husband. But it's a woman's prerogative to change her mind, is it not? I might be in love with the idiot, but I'm not getting married because somebody held a gun to my head.

"I want a proper proposal." I said, petulantly. "You have to get down on one knee and everything, or you won't get an answer. And I want a ring too. Something with diamonds in it."

Papa's shoulders sagged. I truly think this was the most exhausting afternoon of his life. He was so close to getting what he wanted – both the problem of his estate being entailed away from his family and the problem of his wayward daughter could be resolved if I would only agree to marry Matthew, but you know, I never like to do what I'm told. Matthew's exhaled, but when he looked up at me his smile was almost rakish. It was quite enough to make my heart flutter.

"Alright." Matthew conceded, "I'll get you your ring. And I'll propose properly, if that's what you want. But only if you agree to say _'yes'_."

I sniffed, still somewhat put out by the fact he knew about my _'soir malheureux' _and didn't say anything.

"_Maybe._" I said.

Papa groaned. Matthew very nearly rolled his eyes.

So, there you have it. That was over a week ago. I'm still waiting for Matthew to 'pop the question', as they say, but since then Papa's mood seems to have improved immeasurably. After all, I had _sort_ _of_ agreed to marry his heir, and I had promised him faithfully that I would take this accursed diary and BURN all evidence that Pamuk and I had ever met. And one day, I fully intend to.

Just not quite yet.

Anyway, I'm so tired now. I'll update you tomorrow, when I've got my energy back.

* * *

**12th March 1913**

Some good news at last – Claudius is feeding better.

Papa has already made arrangements for some of the other puppies to be given away to good homes as soon as they came of decent age. I had previously convinced him that Claudius was too sickly to give away, but I don't think this argument is going to stand much longer, as the pup is now feeding like a champion and only this morning was caught happily defecating in one of His Lordship's shoes. I wonder if I could convince Bates to keep Claudius? I've grown rather attached, you see. (To Claudius, that is. Not Bates. Although I'm sure Bates is lovely).

Something I've just been reminded of - a few days ago, after the news of the 'Pamuk Incident' was made common knowledge, I was taking a walk in the garden, trying to clear my thoughts. I had a rather interesting run-in with Granny.

I had been taking a turn around the grounds, and somewhere between the peonies and the petunias, Granny caught up with me, moving at what I would consider a frankly alarming speed for a woman of her advanced years.

"Mary," she said breathlessly, "I wanted to talk to you about this Pamuk business."

Not this again. If I never heard the name 'Kemal Pamuk' again, it would be too soon. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to be polite.

"Why, what is it Granny?" I said, "If you've come to tell me that I'm the black sheep in this family and I deserve to be cast out, I'm afraid Papa already beat you to it."

"My dear, no." Granny said, "We're all black sheep in this family. The only white sheep is your Aunt Rosamund, and you've seen where that got her. No, I just wanted to let you know that we're all on your side. Families have to stick together in times like these."

That was somewhat funny, considering it was Edith who had tried to expose my affair with Pamuk. I remembered what my father had said, that day in the library.

"'I'm not the first Crawley to make a mistake'." I echoed, sadly.

"No, you're not." Granny agreed. "You're not even the first Crawley to form a _mésalliance."_

She said it with such a look in her eye that I had to stop. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?

"Granny?" I said, "Did you-...? Before you were married, did you...?"

"That's all in the past now." Granny said fondly, patting my hand. "And if there's no harm done, there's no point in dwelling on it. That's what I always say."

Granny? Forming a mésalliance? With who, I wonder? However disgusting the thought, it did manage to cheer me up somewhat.

Anyway, I'm still waiting for my proposal from Matthew. Starting to lose patience, actually. That boy certainly knows how to vex me.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:****Sorry it has taken me so long!**** I hope this chapter is worth it. I've changed the story rating to 'M', because I've thrown in a few grown-up sexy elements, so maybe don't read this if you're underage in your country of residence. It's not too smutty. At least, I hope it's not or I'm getting banned from . **

**Whatever, I'm babbling - read on and enjoy! If you like it, please comment. Much love!**

* * *

**14th March 1913**

Brace yourself: Edith is on a one woman mission to try and make amends. No, you read that right. Edith. A woman who has never apologised of her own volition for anything. _In her life._

It started this morning, when Mama decided it was time for our monthly trip to the dressmakers. It was Sybil's turn for a new dress – (with emphasis on the word _dress, _seeing as last time the little wretch was allowed to pick her own clothes, she picked something with trousers) – and throughout the entire car journey to Ripon, Edith was trying to make conversation with me.

"I think Sybil should get something in yellow, don't you Mary? It's such a summery colour. And I know it isn't our turn for an outfit, but I do have a little money of my own and I had rather hoped we could look in at the milliners whilst we were in town. What do you think, Mary? I think I'd need your opinion. I'm terrible with hats."

This met with stony silence. I concentrated on looking out of the window at the passing landscape. We passed the church, the train station, a farm. There was a quiet moment. Mama tried to say something to break the tension, but Edith ignored her.

"For instance," Edith persisted, "that's a marvellous hat. I don't think I've seen it before. Is it new?"

This was a desperate attempt at conversation. I'd had this hat for years. It had been redressed a couple of times, and I even had to have it re-dyed at one point, but it had always been a favourite of mine and Edith should have been able to recognise it a mile off. She'd seen that hat a thousand times. She must really be clutching at straws, I thought. I almost gave her an incredulous look, before reminding myself I was ignoring her and focusing on the passing landscape out of the car window. Fields, fields and more fields.

Edith tried a different ploy.

"I, for one, look terrible in hats."

Oh yes. Very clever. Trying to lure out a response by leaving me with an open target. Well, I wasn't biting.

"Mary," Mama said desperately, "Edith is talking to you."

"Was she?" was my terse response.

Do you know, I think I could keep this up forever.

* * *

**15th March 1913**

Tonight was the first big family dinner since everyone found out about the Pamuk Incident. By now, everyone knows my secret – even Carson, who has been trained in the art of not betraying his own opinions to the family, can't seem to keep the disappointment off his face. It makes me feel very sad. There's still an awkward silence whenever I walk into dinner, and I can't shake the feeling that everybody would find life much easier if I pretended to have a headache, and asked to take a tray in my room.

But, unfortunately for everyone, I am not in the habit of making anyone's life easier.

The only one who does not seem to be embarrassed is Matthew, who is, albeit, behaving with a great deal more shyness, now he is under the watchful stare of my father. Cousin Isobel, too, is not embarrassed, but does seem to be torn between her liberal sensibilities, ("Mary made a mistake! We should not judge her too harshly!"), and her mothering instincts, (ie – hissing everytime I come within a three foot radius of her son). And between Matthew's new found shyness, Isobel's mothering instincts and Edith's penchant to try and talk my ear off, I found that Matthew and I didn't even get to say two sentences to each other all evening. This irked me greatly, because how is he supposed to propose to me if we can't even string a conversation together?

The evening seemed to last a lot longer than usual, but maybe that was just me. Eventually, at the end of the evening, I got to retire to my bedroom and slip off my shoes, whilst Anna went about the business of plucking pins out of my coiffure. I wondered how long it would take before people would start behaving normally around me again. Would they _ever _behave normally around me again? I was suddenly very tired.

"There, there, Milady." said Anna, "You've just got to give it time."

I smiled at her. God bless Anna. I don't know what I would do without her. She can keep my secrets, she can fix my hair, and frankly, her ability to guess what I'm thinking borders on the supernatural. If she wasn't so obsessed with Bates, I'd be tempted to marry Anna and then Matthew could go swing for all I care.

Just as I was meditating on the merits of having a decent Lady's Maid, there was a knock at my bedroom door. My heart just about stopped. For one delirious moment, I was sure that it was going to be Matthew, even though Isobel had left almost an hour earlier and I knew from experience that Matthew was never much further behind her.

Of course, it wasn't Matthew. It turned out to be Sybil, who threw herself on my bed and generally started to make a nuisance of herself, whilst Anna continued to undress me. Of course it wasn't going to be Matthew. Of course not. I began to inwardly curse myself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sybil and I made insipid conversation for a few minutes, talking about corsets and stays and a whole manner of other banal lady subjects, but I still couldn't quite fathom why she was there. It's not as if my sisters and I aren't close – on the contrary, Sybil and I are in and out of each other's bedrooms on even the slightest pretext – but I can read my sister like a book. The way she seemed to be flitting from one conversational topic to another without really registering my answers, (more than once I had to repeat what I had just said). It just seemed to confirm what I already suspected. Sybil was trying to avoid the real conversation she had come here to have.

"I wish you'd just ask me." I said.

For a second, Sybil had the look of a frightened rabbit. "What?"

"You didn't come here to talk to me about corsets and stays. So just ask me whatever you came in here to ask me, and we'll settle it."

Sybil looked from Anna to me, and back again.

"Oh for god's sake, it's only _Anna." _

Anna smiled at my sister, encouragingly. You can trust Anna with just about anything. This, I know from experience.

Sybil smiled back, nervously. "Well," she said, "it's about Kemal Pamuk."

I felt rather ill. But of course, she was bound to have questions. I might as well get this conversation out of the way. The sooner I can settle everyone's curiosity, the sooner things can get back to normal.

"Yes?"

"What was it like?" she said, eagerly.

I could feel my jaw go slack. Anna, who had been brushing my hair out, stopped paying attention to what she was doing and dropped the silver-plated hairbrush to the floor with a heavy thud. It took a second to get my voice working.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know, when you... _you know. _When he took you to bed. What happened? What was it like? You can tell me, surely?"

"I most certainly cannot. You have to wait until you're older."

Sybil frowned. "I'm not that much younger than you. I don't see what the problem is. I'm only asking for the mechanics."

"You know the mechanics." I said, "You've seen farm animals, haven't you?"

"Yes." said Sybil, "but that doesn't look very pleasant. There must be something more to it than that."

I was hesitant to say to my sister that my whole experience with Pamuk was not entirely pleasant either. It was an ordeal she would have to face herself one day, preferably as a respectable married woman and preferably without her husband suffering from cardiac failure mid-coitus. If I had to warn her about the 'physical' aspect of being in love, I would warn her about it the night before her wedding and not a moment sooner.

"You'll find out when you're married."

"Oh Mary," Sybil said dreamily, "was it terrific?"

It wasn't like my younger sister to be such an unabashed romantic.

"Get out." I said, playfully, "I want to get some sleep. If you have any more mechanical questions, go and ask Granny."

I nodded at Anna to let her know that she could leave as well, and she dipped into a curtsey and took her leave. Sybil didn't move. She was looking at me, expectantly. As soon as Anna closed the door behind her, she shuffled to the end of the bed and said, in a hurried whisper, "Alright, Anna's gone. You can tell me now."

I exhaled. "_Goodnight, _Sybil."

She left, with no degree of alacrity.

"Spoilsport." she said, as she closed the door behind her.

Good god, what a day. I didn't think I could take much more of this. I knew my sisters well enough to know that Sybil wasn't going to drop this subject any time soon, and Edith was not going to give up nagging me until I talked to her again. The whole idea of it all exhausted me.

I turned out the lights and climbed under the bed sheets, making myself as comfortable as possible. I had to shift positions several times, but despite my tiredness, I was unable to find sleep. I tossed and turned for a few more minutes, and eventually found myself wondering if I could sneak down to the library and borrow one of Papa's books. Would Papa still be up? Carson certainly would. As I was mulling these thoughts around in my head there was another soft knock on the door. I mean, really. Couldn't a girl even get a restful night's sleep anymore? Irritated, I got out of bed and walked over to the bedroom door.

"Honestly Sybil, I'm not telling you anyt-..."

It wasn't Sybil. I stared dumbly at the figure at the doorway, wondering if I had finally fallen asleep or just gone plain mad?

"For god's sake," Matthew said in an urgent whisper, "let me in before anyone sees."

I didn't know what to do. Panicking, I ushered him inside. He was still wearing his dinner suit, but he hadn't opted for a dress shirt this evening, which had meant he was at liberty to take off his tie and undo the first two buttons of his shirt once everyone had retired. I found myself staring at the hollow of his throat with a thrill of excitement, which was dampened only by the knowledge that if I was caught with a _second_ man hiding in my bedroom, my family would not be nearly as forgiving as they were over Mr Pamuk. Even if the aforementioned man was Matthew.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed. "Are you trying to get me in trouble?"

"What's wrong?" Matthew said, "Can't a chap take a moment to steal a kiss from his own fiancée?"

I felt my heart flutter at his words and I had to stop myself from smiling. I straightened my back. "I am not your fiancée, if I recall. You haven't asked me."

Matthew furrowed his brow. "I did ask you. You refused to answer me."

"Because you didn't ask me _properly._"

"Yes, but..." Matthew stopped himself, took a deep, calming breath, and said, "Alright. But you will admit that we are sweethearts."

Then I really did smile. 'Sweethearts' was such an innocent little word. When you take into consideration that fifty percent of my time is spent having unladylike thoughts about ravaging Matthew and the other fifty percent of my time is spent quietly plotting to kill him, 'sweethearts' was hardly the right word to describe our complicated relationship. But, for lack of a better description, it would have to suffice. I took a step towards him.

"I suppose we are, aren't we?" I said.

He smiled too. "So," he said, "can't a chap take a moment to steal a kiss from his own sweetheart?"

I pretended to consider this for a moment. Whilst I was pretending to mull it over, Matthew took a step closer and planted his lips on mine. One arm snaked its way around my waist and the other was brought up to touch my face, where his fingers began to lose themselves in my hair. His lips were slow and tantalising, and I felt my skin begin to burn up under his touch. My blood was singing. And as his hand moved from my hair to the ape of my neck, stroking the sensitive skin there, I suddenly became very, very aware that I was in my nightdress. Matthew's hands began to travel lower.

"Wait," I gasped into his lips, "stop."

He did stop, but he made no effort to move away from me.

"What's wrong?" he said, somewhat breathless.

"Not until we're married. We have to do things properly."

Matthew chuckled against my lips.

"I wasn't going to press my suit, if that's what you were thinking. I just wanted to kiss you. It's been torture not being able to spend time alone with you."

"Oh my darling, I know." I planted a small kiss on the small patch of skin exposed by his shirt. Matthew smiled at this small piece of affection and began to nuzzle my hair.

"You're so beautiful with your hair loose like this." He whispered. "Oh god Mary, if you only knew." he started a small trail of kisses, leading slowly down my throat. My fingers moved up to his shoulders and I held on, tightly. "I just about worship you. I want to kiss you all over."

He was making it very difficult to think straight. "And you can." I said, faintly. "Just... just after we're married, that's all..."

Oh god, I wanted him to kiss me all over. It was such a horribly wanton thing to think, but I couldn't help it. His lips brushing against my skin and the hotness of his breath – the slight scent of the brandy he'd been drinking – it was a heady mixture, and I started to feel quite weak. Why did he have to touch me like that? It was making it so damn hard to think straight.

"Alright," I said, breathlessly, "_stop."_

And he did. Poor Matthew, he looked bewildered.

"Darling, what's the matter?" He turned on a nearby lamp, wanting to get a better look on my face. "Good god Mary, you look terrified."

I resented the fact that he thought I looked 'terrified'. I wasn't. I was, perhaps, nervous, and who come blame me seeing as the last time I had romantic liaisons with a man, it was damn near agony. And whereas I had no doubt in my mind that Matthew would be a more considerate lover, I couldn't quite relax in his presence. Besides which, we were still unmarried.

Matthew didn't take his hands off my body, but he did shift them to a slightly more respectable location. His blue eyes narrowed.

"It's Pamuk, isn't it?" Matthew was suddenly agitated, "God Mary, what did he do to you?"

"Nothing."

"Did he hurt you?"

"No, not like _that._" I sighed, "The whole thing with Pamuk was just a little bit too... I mean, well, when he took me to bed, it..." Oh good god. Was I even having this conversation? How mortifying. "Actually, I can't talk about things like this. Even to you."

Matthew ignored my protest.

"But you had some pleasure, didn't you? When you made love? He was gentle with you?"

'Made love'? Oh, how sweet. Matthew was so full of romantic idealism that it practically dripped out of his pores. In any case, I must have hesitated too long before answering, because suddenly Matthew looked like he wanted to punch a wall.

"That _bastard." _he hissed.

"Matthew!"

"But how could he, Mary?" Matthew's arms released me, and he started to pace the room. His voice was getting louder. I was starting to worry that someone might overhear him. "You gave yourself to him! You trusted him and he_ hurt_ you? I could kill him."

"You couldn't." I pointed out, glibly. "He's already dead."

Matthew wasn't listening. _"Bastard." _He said again, with more vehemence. And when he couldn't seem to think of anything else to say, he said _"Bastard"_ again a couple of more times.

"Keep your voice down, will you? You'll wake the whole house." I sighed. "Can't we just forget about it? I don't want to talk about Pamuk anymore. He's gone now."

Matthew looked at me, and his face fell.

"Of course, darling. I'm sorry." He pulled me back into his arms and I buried my face in his chest. He smelled so wonderful – the faintest whiff of cigar smoke, his soap, and of course that indefinable, underlining scent of pure Matthew. He was intoxicating. As I breathed him in, I felt his lips brush my ear.

"It doesn't seem fair that you had to go through that." he said quietly, "It shouldn't be like that at all, Mary. When you make love to someone – I mean, _really_ make love – well... it's just _tops_."

I smiled against his chest. There was that phrase again. 'Make love'. I pulled away from Matthew just far enough to stand up on my toes and kiss him thoroughly. I wanted to make him forget about this whole ridiculous conversation. I ran my fingers through his short, soft hair and then moved them down across that thick, corded muscles of his neck and his chest. His skin fascinated me. It wasn't quite as soft as mine, and the muscles beneath the surface were harder and more pronounced. I couldn't seem to stop touching it. Without really realising what I was doing, I found I was tugging at the buttons of his shirt. I needed to feel more of him.

"Mary!" he gasped, "Oh god, darling. You have to stop."

"It's alright." I whispered.

"It's not." he said, although he didn't seem to be making any effort to push me away. "If we don't stop now, I don't know if I'll be able to. I should go now."

I could feel his heart beat under the palms of my hands. I fancied that it was beating faster than it should have been. He made no effort to move away from me.

"What is really like?" I said, breathlessly. "When you 'make love'?" I kept tugging at his shirt. One of his buttons flew off and landed under the bed somewhere. Molesley would not thank me for that.

"Oh god, _Mary." _Matthew groaned_, "_The pleasure gets so intense, it's like a form of madness. I want to be the one to show you. I want to be the only one who shows you."

I liberated his shirt. I took a moment to examine his chest and the soft, blonde hair that covered it. It was utterly fascinating and not at all like I imagined. It was better. It was beautiful. Matthew was beautiful. I placed a small kiss over his heart.

"I want you to show me." I said.

And the rest, as they say, is history.


End file.
